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TALES 



OF A 



WAYSIDE INN 



BY 
HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW 



WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY 

NATHAN HASKELL DOLE 



NEW YORK 

THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO 

PUBLISHERS 



LIBRARY of CONGRF.SS 
Two CoDles Received 

JlIN 30 J906 

Oopyritfht Entry 
LASS Q^ X'Xc, No, 
COPY B. 7 



\x 



COI'YPIGHT, IQo6, 

Bv THO.VIA^. V LROWELL & CO. 



CONTENTS. 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 


Prelude. 


l-AGE 


The Wayside Inx . 


3 


The Landlord's Tale. 




Paul Revere's Ride 


20 


Lnterlude ...... 


. 28 


The Student's Tale. 




The Falcon of Ser Federigo 


- 32 


Interlude ...... 


- . 48 


The Spanish Jkw's Talk 




The Legend of Rabbi Ben Levi . 


' 51 


Interlude ...... 


• 55 


The Sicilian's Tale. 




King Robert of Sicily . 


• 57 


Interlude ...... 


. 71 


The Musician's Tale. 




The Saga of King Olaf 


' 1Z 


I. The Challenge of Thor 


' 73 


II. King Olaf's Return . 


• 75 


III. Thora of Rimol 


. 80 


IV. Queen Sigrid the Haughty 


. 84 



iv 


CONTENTS. 




V. 


The Skerry of Shrieks 


VI. 


The Wraith of Odin . 


. 


VII. 


Iron-Beard 


. 


VIII. 


Gudrun .... 


. 


IX. 


Thangbrand the Priest 




X. 


Raud the Strong 


. 


•XL 


Bishop Sigurd at Salten Fiord 




XII. 


King ( Maf's Christmas 




XIII. 


The Building of the Long Serpent . 


XIV. 


The Crew of the Long Serpent 


XV. 


A Little Bird in the Air . 


XVI. 


Queen Thyri and the Angelica Stalks 


XVII. 


King Sventl of the Forked Beard 


XVIII. 


King Olaf and Earl Sigvald 


XIX. 


King Olaf's War-horns 


XX. 


Einar Tamberskelver 


XXI. 


King Olaf's Death-drink . 


XXII. 


The Nun of Nidaros «... 


Interlude 




The Theologian's Tale. 


ToRQUEMADA . o ., , . . . 


Interlude 




The Poet's Tale. 


The Birds of Killingworth 


Finale , 







CONTENTS. 



BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 



FLIGHT THE SECOND. 





PAGE 


The Children's Hour ..*.,, 


20 1 


Enceladus 


204 


The Cumberland 


207 


Snow-flakes ....... 


210 


A Day of Sunshine . „ . . . 


212 


Something leff Undone . , . . 


214 


Weariness 


216 



INTRODUCTION. 

We look to the East and to Antiquity for the birth 
of the story. There, also, first originated the simple 
but effective scheme of stringing pearls on golden 
wire; that is to say, spinning a thread of plausible 
narration on which should be connected sequent or 
contrasting tales. In the proem to what some authori- 
ties claim to be the most ancient poem in existence, 
"The Kalevala," the collector says: — 

" Shall I bring these songs together, 
From the cold and frost collect them? 
Shall I bring this nest of boxes, 
Keepers of these golden legends. 
To the table in my cabin, 
Underneath the painted rafters, 
In this house renowned and ancient? 
Shall I now these boxes open. 
Boxes filled with wondrous stories ? . . . 
It will add to our enchantment, 
To the pleasure of the evening, 
Northland's long and dreary evening." 

The great epics, the "Iliad" and the ''Odyssey," 
the "Nibelungenlied" and "Reynard the Fox,"' simi- 
larly consist of legends welded into a certain unity. 
The story of the Fall of Troy as related by ^neas 
at Dido's feast is an illustration of the same tendency 
vii 



viii INTRODUCTION. 

even in a highly sophisticated poet like Vergil. The 
"Thousand and One Nights," or as we usually call 
them the "Arabian Nights," are the best-known ex- 
ample, though in these tales, connected by the dramatic 
purpose of the Princess Shahrazad, there is a mixture 
of prose and verse, and the stories are mostly prose. 
Boccaccio shuts seven ladies and three signori into 
a pleasant villa near Florence, and for ten days they 
enliven themselves and try to forget the proximity of 
the Plague by telling stories — there are a hundred 
of them. Chaucer, who was acquainted with the 
"Dccamerone," allowed his Canterbury Pilgrims to 
add to the delights of their April journey through 
England by repealing some of the same stories and 
still others in melodious verse. 

It is evident that this device, which is eminently 
natural and obvious, is as old as literature. Long- 
fellow found it ready at hand. Some of his friends 
had been in the habit of spending their summers at 
the Red Horse Inn at Sudluiry, twenty miles from 
Cambridge. Although years before, as early as 1844 
or 1845, he had stopped there for the early breakfast 
served to the passengers of the coach that left Boston 
at three o'clock in tne morning, he had no personal 
knowledge of it as a pleasure-resort. He had written 
and published several metrical tales before it occurred 
to him to make lliis tlic scene of their narration. 
About three weeks before he finished the Prelude, 



INTRODUCTION. ix 

on October 31, 1862, "a delicious Indian -wSummer 
day," he drove with his pubhsher, James T. Fields, 
to Sudbury, to correct his dim recollection and his 
vivid imagination by a sight of the reality. This 
visit enabled him to infuse that delightful local 
color which gives so much reality to the introductory 
narration. 

New England is full of wayside inns, but none 
appeals more strongly to the poet and romancer than 
that which Longfellow describes as "a house of call 
for a 1 travellers from Boston Westward." Originally 
a private mansion-house built more than two centuries 
ago by a wealthy English family, it was soon con- 
verted into a tavern by Colonel Ezekial Howe, who 
was compelled thus to restore his depleted fortunes. 
On his death, his son Adam kept up the traditions of 
the house for forty years longer. The sign is said to 
have borne this inscription : — 

D. H. 1686 

E. H. 1746 

A. Howe 1796 

The Red Horse that pranced upon it, "half- 
effaced by rain and shine," must have entirely dis- 
appeared some time before Longfellow's visit. The 
last landlord, Lyman Howe, the "man of ancient 
pedigree," was found dead in his bed by his faithful 
servitor, black Pete, two years before the Tales were 



X INTRODUCTION. 

published. The family was extinct and the house 
was, as Longfellow noted, "alas, no longer an 
inn." 

According to an old print, it was a rather bare and 
barnlike structure with two enormous chimneys sug- 
gestive of the cordwood burned uncut to warm the 
ample rooms of winter evenings. At present, with 
various restorations and improvements, with its four 
gables projected from the gambrel roof, and with iis 
attractive porch flanked with settles, it is a decidedly 
comfortable-looking edifice. It has been for some 
years rehabilitated in its hospitable enterprise, and 
the rooms supplied with appropriate antique furni- 
ture so that it lacks nothing of the spirit and charm 
of the vanished days. 

A week or a summer spent at the Wayside Inn, 
where in more than one sense one would not be ten 
miles from a lemon, comes within the meaning of 
the word "ideal." At least one poet — the Singer of 
"the Song of the Ancient People" — finds still a 
charm in its — 

"stairways worn, nnd crazv doors, 
And creaking and uneven floors, 
And chimneys buge and tiled and tall." 

The "parlor of the inn" in these modern da^s 
frequently answers to those happy lines descriptive 
of the inerrymakinn; which Longfellov/ knew onlv in 
imagination: one may still hear the din of laughter 



INTRODUCTION. xi 

and of loud applause, the quavering notes of flute 
or violin, while the firelight, shedding over all the 
splendor of its ruddy glow, gleams on wainscot and 
wall. The ample dining room at the back of the 
house extending out into the "L" is on holidays 
riled to overflowing with merry parties brought there 
not in the lumbering stage-coach, as of yore, but in 
the luxuriously appointed motor car which comes 
from town more quickly than the train which stops 
at a station a mile and a half away. 

Over the fireplace, in the cosey taproom, hang two 
crossed swords, while a long musket rests on the 
antlers of a stag for whose death it may have been 
responsible. How many mugs of steaming flip must 
have been dispensed from that quaint counter walled 
away by its latticed guard and its "wooden portcullis 
made to be hoisted or let down at pleasure " ! 

Samuel Adams Drake waxes eloquent in his descrip- 
tion: "Those were good old times after all. A 
traveller, after a hard day's journey, pulls up at the 
Red Horse. The Landlord is at the door, hat in 
hand, with a cheery welcome and a shout to the 
blacks, to care for the stranger's beasts. Is it v/intcr, 
a mimic conflagration roars on the hearth. A bowl 
of punch is brewed, smoking hot. The guest, noth- 
ing loath, swallows the mixture, heaves a deep sigh, 
and declares himself better a thousand pounds." 

The taproom serves no such purpose now in these 



xii INTRODUCTION. 

days when the sentiment of most of Longfellow's 
readers would justify him in retaining his rejected 
emendation of ''treacherous" for the adjective in the 
line, "The revels of the ruddy wine." 

The scenery probably has not changed very much 
in two centuries. Longfellow describes it as "a 
lovely valley." It is still "a region of repose, a place 
of slumber and of dreams, remote among the wooded 
hills." Drake says the Inn "stands in a sequestered 
nook, among the hills which upheave the neighboring 
region like ocean billows. At present the house is 
like a waif on the sea-shore, left high and dry by some 
mighty tide, or a landmark which showed where the 
current of travel once flowed." 

Except when the landscape is viewed from the top 
of T.Iount Nobscot, whence there is a fme prospect 
including a narrow ribbon of silver, one rr.isses river 
or lake to render it romr.ntic; but there is a peculiar 
restfulness in the gentle slopes, the broad f elds — 
the meadows "bare and brown," or fair and 'green, 
according as the season dresses them. 

Probably Washington and his suite passed under 
the noble trees that line the road on each side — "the 
winding road, shaded by grand old oaks," as Long- 
fellow characterized them. Oaks are long-lived and 
they were perhaps not young even when the ill fated 
company under Captain Wadsworth, Longfellow's 
ancestor, the father of Harvard's ninth President, 



INTRODUCTION. xiii 

marched on its way to the relief of Sudbury in King 
Philip's War. 

One comes suddenly on the Inn ; it seems set almost 
into the street. It was not the fashion in early days 
to plant houses far back. Our ancestors did not 
relish digging long paths through the snow-drifts, 
only to have them fill up again the next day. Their 
I)arn doors almost always opened over the ruts 

In the thin and disappointing selection of letters 
and journals used as a filling to the Reverend Samuel 
Longfellow's life of his brother, comparatively Httle 
light is thrown on the origin, conception, plan, or 
composition of the "Tales of a Wayside Inn" At 
first it was proposed to call them the "Sudbury 
Tales," but Charles Sumner "cried out against it"; 
and after the book was in print the poet sent word to 
his publisher that they must adopt their original title. 

November eleventh he wrote that the Tales were 
going on famously. On the twenty-ninth he de- 
scribed himself as at work on "Torquemada," "a 
dismal story of fanaticism but in its main points 
historical"; and he chronicled its completion on 
midnight of December fifth. In a letter written to 

"Miss F " in England he declared that the 

characters who tell the stories are real. "The student 
of old books and days," with such, fondness for "the 
borderland of old romance" was Henry Ware Wales, 
who died young before he fulfilled the promise of his 



xiv INTRODUCTION. 

youth. "The young SiciHan" was Luigi Monti, who 
was born in Palermo in 1830, served in the Italian 
revolutionary army during the stormy days of 1848-9 
and came as a fugitive to the United States. He 
first settled in Boston. He taught Italian at Harvard 
between 1854 and 1859, and published an Italian 
Grammar and Reader. He lectured before the 
Lowell Institute on Contemporary Representative 
Men of Italy. . Between 1861 and 1874, he was 
consul at Palermo and wrote a book relating his 
experiences. He also wrote a novel ''Leone" which 
was published in the Round Robin Series. And he 
made a number of excellent translations of Italian 
books. 

"The Poet" was Thomas William Parsons, who 
was born in Boston in 1819. In 1836 he went to 
Italy, where he made a remarkable translation of 
ten cantos of Dante's "Inferno." He afterwards 
finished the whole of it. On his return he practised 
his profession of dentistry, but after 1872 he devoted 
himself to literary work. Harvard gave him the 
honorary degree of Master of Arts. His lines on a 
Bust of Dante are considered to be as fine in their 
way as anything in the English language. 

"The Spanish Jew from Alicant," Longfellow says, 
was Israel Edrehi, "whom he had seen as he painted 
him." His record is not chronicled in the Jewish 
Encyclopedia: whether he was any relation to the 



INTRODUCTION. xv 

famous Moses Edrehi who was at one time well 
known in London, is dubious. He seems to have 
vanished without leaving a footprint on the sands of 
time. 

Of course the Musician was Ole Bull, who was one 
of the most romantic figures in all musical history, 
with his tall figure and eager inspired face, his mar- 
vellous technique, his tricksy spirit, and his keen 
interest in all questions philosophical and religious. 
He was born in Norway in 1810 and r.fter marvellous 
experiences in which he made and lost and then again 
made a fortune, lie married an Ameiican wife and 
divided his time between his native and his adopted 
country. He died not far from where he was born, at 
his country seat near Bergen, in August, 1880. He, like 
his master Paginini, left wit'i those who heard or knew 
him the recollection of something weird and siipern:;iu- 
ral in his mastery of the divine Art of Music, and Long- 
fellow hints at it in the lines of the Prelude and the 
Interludes where he and his violin are mentioned. 

Longfellow modestly hides himself behind these 
figures so gracious'y portrayed, but his genius burns 
through all the lines. 

The first series of "Tales of a Wayside Inn" was 
published on November 25, 1863, in the very darkest 
days of the Civil War. There is no more hint of the 
great conflict then raging than you will find in the 
"Decamerone" of the devastating plague that was 



xvi INTRODUCTION. 

sweeping over Italy in the middle of the fourteenth 
century. An edition of fifteen thousand copies, 
speedily exhausted, seemed to show that there was at 
that time a keener interest in poetry than there is 
now. At all events, it is safe to say that no living 
American poet would make so assured an appeal to 
the public, although the population of the United 
States has almost doubled since then. Perhaps 
the explanation of the phenomenon is to be found in 
Hawthorne's words of honest praise, where he said 
that he had read the tales with great comfort and 
delight: "I take vast satisfaction in your poetry," 
he continues, "and take very httle in other men's, 
except it be the grand old strains that have been sound- 
ing on through all my life. Nothing can be better 
than these tales of yours, one and all." In the same 
letter he expressed his satisfaction to find his own 
name shining in Longfellow's verse, just as if he had 
been "gazing up at the Moon and detected his own 
features in its profile." 

Emerson, also speaking of the one original invention 
of Longfellow's, — "The Birds of Killingworth," — 
declared that it v/as "as serene, happy, and immortal 
as Chaucer and speaks to all conditions." 

Emerson touches the root of the matter. Long- 
fellow, through his simplicity, his spontaneity, his 
grace of diction, his gift of graphic presentation, 
appealed to all conditions of men. He tells a metrical 



INTRODUCTION. xvii 

story well; it has motion, life, vigor, and what is 
more it is interesting. He was fortunate in being 
among the first to see the value of the New England 
legends as crude material to transmute into poetry. 
The very first of the Sudbury Tales, the one put 
into the mouth of the genial Landlord has had 
almost unexampled popularity. The words "Listen 
my children" in the first hne make it evident that it 
was written for young people, and probabfy with 
no thought of its utilization for the entertainment 
of the Landlord's jolly guests. It has been declaimed 
by thousands of school children, and it has furnished 
subject of heated argument for multitudes of his- 
torians who have crossed swords as to Longfellow's 
accuracy in hanging the two lanterns in the Old 
North Church. It has been pretty conclusively 
shown that other messengers besides Paul Revere 
were scouring the country arousing the Minute Men 
to meet the British advance, and that the two-lantern 
signal was a private one devised by Richard Devens 
and Paul Revere. As Revere was a communicant 
of the North Church, and as Christ Church, the rival 
claimant to this honor, was royalist in its proclivities, 
the balance of probability seems to hang in favor of 
Longfellow's narration. The second story is con- 
fessedly taken from Boccaccio : — 

" A tale of the Decameron, told 

In Palmieri's garden old, 

By Fiametta laurel-crowned." 



xviii INTRODUCTION. 

The third is attributed to the Talmud which, Hke 
the "Gesta Romanorum" from which the fourth is 
derived, has always been a storehouse of curious 
and poetic legends. **The Saga of King Olaf," 
disproportionately long, compared to the others, had 
been in Longfellow's mind as a possible poem for 
some time. He had indeed printed one of the 
Lyrics; he tells how in spite of all kinds of interrup- 
tions hh had written fifteen of them in as many con- 
secutive days in November, i860. In his diary he 
briefly notes that the story which the Theologian tells 
of Torquemada was derived from the pages of De 
Castro. There was a slight foundation, in fact, for 
"The Poet's Tale," for many years before there had 
been great rivalry in the northern part of Killing- 
worth, Connecticut, in the war of extermination 
waged against crows, blackbirds, owls, and other 
corn -thieves; so that the winged inhabitants of 
Nephelokokkygia had good reason to steer clear of 
such a bloodthirsty region. 

Such was the origin of the tales that formed the 
first evening of Longfellow's Tritemeron. Con 
sidering the great success of the little book, it was 
rather remarkable he should have waited nearly a 
decade before he repeated the experiment But 
even wfth this instalment he had proved that he 
was a worthy pupil of Chaucer. 

Nathan Haskell Dole. 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



PRELUDE. 

THE WAYSIDE INN. 

One Autumn night, in Sudbury town, 

Across the meadows bare and brown, 

The windows of the wayside inn 

Gleamed red with fire-light through the leaves 

Of woodbine, hanging from the eaves 

Their crimson curtains rent and thin. 

As ancient is this hostelry 

As any in the land may be. 

Built in the old Colonial day. 

When men lived in a grander way, 

With ampler hospitality; 

A kind of old Hobgoblin Hall, 

Now somewhat fallen to decay. 



4 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

With weather-stains upon the wall, 
And stairways worn, and crazy doors, 
And creaking and uneven floors. 
And chimneys huge, and tiled and tall. 

A region of repose it seems, 

A place of slumber and of dreams. 

Remote among the wooded hills ! 

For there no noisy railway speeds, 

Its torch-race scattering smoke and gleeds; 

But noon and night, the panting teams 

Stop under the great oaks, that throw 

Tangles of Hght and shade below. 

On roofs and doors and window-sills. 

Across the road the barns display 

Their lines of stalls, their mows of hay. 

Through the wide doors the breezes blow 

The wattled cocks strut to and fro, 

And, half effaced by rain and shine. 

The Red Horse prances on the sign. 



THE IV AY SIDE INN. 

Round this old-fashioned, quaint abode 
Deep silence reigned, save when a gust 
Went rushing down the county road, • 
And skeletons of leaves, and dust, 
A moment quickened by its breath, 
Shuddered and danced their dance of death, 
And through the ancient oaks o'erhead 
Mysterious voices moaned and fled. 

But from the parlor of the inn 

A pleasant murmur smote the ear, 

Like water rushing through a weir; 

Oft interrupted by the din 

Of laughter and of loud applause, 

And, in each intervening pause, 

The music of a vioUn. 

The fire-Hght, shedding over all 

The splendor of its ruddy glow. 

Filled the whole parlor large and low; 

It gleamed on wainscot and on wall, 



6 TALES OF A IV AY SIDE INN. 

It touched with more than wonted grace 

Fair Princess Mary's pictured face; 

It bronzed the rafters overhead, 

On the old spinet's ivory keys 

It played inaudible melodies, 

It crowned the sombre clock with flame, 

The hands, the hours, the maker's name. 

And painted with a livelier red 

The Landlord's coat-of-arms again; 

And, flashing on the window-pane. 

Emblazoned with its light and shade 

The jovial rhymes, that still remain, 

Writ near a century ago. 

By the great Major Molineaux, 

Whom Hawthorne has immortal made. 

Before the blazing fire of wood 
Erect the rapt musician stood; 
And ever and anon he bent 
His head upon his instrument, 



THE IVAYSIDE INN. 

And seemed to listen, till he caught 

Confessions of its secret thought, — 

The joy, the triumph, the lament, 

The exultation and the pain; 

Then, by the magic of his art, 

He soothed the throbbings of its heart, 

And lulled it into peace again. 

Around the fireside at their ease 
There sat a group of friends, entranced 
With the delicious melodies; 
Who from the far-off noisy town 
Had to the wayside inn come down, 
To rest beneath its old oak-trees. 
The fire-light on their faces glanced, 
Their shadows on the wainscot danced, 
And, though of different lands and speech, 
Each had his tale to tell, and each 
Was anxious to be pleased and please. 
And while the sweet musician plays, 



8 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

Let me in outline sketch them all, 
Perchance uncouthly as the blaze 
With its uncertain touch portrays 
Their shadowy semblance on the wall. 

But first the Landlord will I trace; 

Grave in his aspect and attire; 

A man of ancient pedigree, 

A Justice of the Peace was he. 

Known in all Sudbury as "The Squire." 

Proud was he of his name and race, 

Of old Sir William and Sir Hugh, 

And in the parlor, full in view. 

His coat-of-arms, well framed and glazed, 

Upon the wall in colors blazed; 

He beareth gules upon his shield, 

A chevron argent in the field, 

With three wolf's heads, and for the crest 

A Wyvern part-per-pale addressed 

Upon a helmet barred; below 



THE IV AY SIDE INN. \ 

The scroll reads, *'By the name of Howe." 
And over this, no longer bright, 
Though glimmering with a latent light, 
Was hung the sword his grandsire bore, 
In the rebelhous days of yore, 
Down there at Concord in the fight. 

A youth was there, of quiet ways, 

A Student of old books and days, 

To whom all tongues and lands were known, 

And yet a lover of his own; 

With many a social virtue graced, 

And yet a friend of solitude; 

A man of such a genial mood 

The heart of all things he embraced. 

And yet of such fastidious taste. 

He never found the best too good. 

Books were his passion and dehght, 

And in his upper room at home 

Stood many a rare and sumptuous tome. 



10 TALES OF A IV AY SIDE INN. 

In vellum bound, with gold bedight, 

Great volumes garmented in white, 

Recalling Florence, Pisa, Rome. 

He loved the twilight that surrounds 

The border-land of old romance; 

Where glitter hauberk, helm, and lance, 

And banner waves, and trumpet sounds, 

And ladies ride with hawk on wrist, 

And mighty warriors sweep along, 

Magnified by the purple mist. 

The dusk of centuries and of song. 

The chronicles of Charlemagne, 

Of Merlin and the Mort d'Arthure, 

Mingled together in his brain 

With tales of Flores and Blanchefleur, 

Sir Ferumbras, Sir Eglamour, 

Sir Launcelot, Sir Morgadour, 

Sir Guy, Sir Be vis, Sir Gawain. 

A young Sicilian, too, was there; — 
In sight of Etna born and bred, 



THE IVAYSIDE INN. 11 

Some breath of its volcanic air 

Was glowing in his heart and brain, 

And, being rebellious to his liege, 

After Palermo's fatal siege, 

Across the western seas he fled. 

In good King Bomba's happy reign. 

His face was Uke a summer night, 

All flooded with a dusky light; 

His hands were small; his teeth shone white 

As sea-shells, when he smiled or spoke; 

His sinews supple and strong as oak; 

Clean shaven was he as a priest. 

Who at the mass on Sunday sings, 

Save that upon his upper lip 

His beard, a good palm's length at least. 

Level and pointed at the tip. 

Shot sideways, Uke a swallow's wings. 

The poets read he o'er and o'er. 

And most of all the Immortal Four 

Of Italy; and next to those, 



12 TALES OF A IV AY SIDE INN. 

The story-telling bard of prose, 

Who wrote the joyous Tuscan tales 

Of the Decameron, that make 

Fiescle's green hills and vales 

Remembered for Boccaccio's sake. 

Much too of music was his thought; 

The melodies and measures fraught 

With sunshine and the open air. 

Of vineyards and the singing sea 

Of his beloved Sicily; 

And much it pleased him to peruse 

The songs of the Sicilian muse, — 

Bucolic songs by Meli sung 

In the familiar peasant tongue, 

That made men say, ''Behold! once more 

The pitying gods to earth restore 

Theocritus of Syracuse!" 

A Spanish Jew from Alicant 

With aspect grand and grave was there; 



THE IVAYSIDE INN. 13 

Vender of silks and fabrics rare, 

And attar of rose from the Levant. 

Like an old Patriarch he appeared, 

Abraham or Isaac, or at least 

Some later Prophet or High-Priest; 

With lustrous eyes, and olive skin. 

And, wildly tossed from cheeks and chin, 

The tumbling cataract of his beard. 

His garments breathed a spicy scent 

Of cinnamon and sandal blent, 

Like the soft aromatic gales 

That meet the mariner, who sails 

Through the Moluccas, and the seas 

That wash the shores of Celebes. 

All stories that recorded are 

By Pierre Alphonse he knew by heart, 

And it was rumored he could say 

The Parables of Sandabar, 

And all the Fables of Pilpay, 

Or if not all, the greater part ! 



14 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

Well versed was he in Hebrew books, 

Talmud and Targum, and the lore 

Of Kabala; and evermore 

There was a mystery in his looks; 

His eyes seemed gazing far away, 

As if in vision or in trance 

He heard the solemn sackbut play, 

And saw the Jewish maidens dance. 

A Theologian, from the school 

Of Cambridge on the Charles, was there; 

Skilful alike with tongue and pen. 

He preached to all men everywhere 

The Gospel of the Golden Rule, 

The New Commandment given to men, 

Thinking the deed, and not the creed. 

Would help us in our utmost need. 

With reverent feet the earth he trod, 

Nor banished nature from his plan. 

But studied still with deep research 



THE IVAYSIDE INN. 15 

To build the Universal Church, 
Lofty as is the love of God, 
And ample as the wants of man. 

A Poet, too, was there, whose verse 

Was tender, musical, and terse; 

The inspiration, the delight, 

The gleam, the glory, the swift flight. 

Of thoughts so sudden, that they seem 

The revelations of a dream, 

All these were his; but with them came 

No envy of another's fame; 

He did not find his sleep less sweet 

For music in some neighboring street, 

Nor rustling hear in every breeze 

The laurels of Miltiades. 

Honor and blessings on his head 

While Hving, good report when dead, 

Who, not too eager for renown, 

Accepts, but does not clutch, the crown ! 



16 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

Last the Musician, as he stood 

Illumined by that fire of wood; 

Fair-haired, blue-eyed, his aspect blithe, 

His figure tall and straight and lithej 

And every feature of his face 

Revealing his Norwegian race; 

A radiance, streaming from within. 

Around his eyes and forehead beamed, 

The Angel with the violin. 

Painted by Raphael, he seemed. 

He lived in that ideal world 

Whose language is not speech, but song; 

Around him evermore the throng 

Of elves and sprites their dances whirled; 

The Stromkarl sang, the cataract hurled 

Its headlong waters from the height; 

And mingled in the wild delight 

The scream of sea-birds in their flight, 

The rumor of the forest trees, 

The plunge of the implacable seas, 



THE IV AY SIDE INN. 17 

The tumult of the wind at night, 
Voices of eld, hke trumpets blowing. 
Old ballads, and wild melodies 
Through mist and darkness pouring forth, 
Like Elivagar's river flowing 
Out of the glaciers of the North. 

The instrument on which he played 
Was in Cremona's workshops made, 
By a great master of the past, 
Ere yet was lost the art divine; 
Fashioned of maple and of pine, 
That in Tyrolian forests vast 
Had rocked and wrestled with the blast: 
Exquisite was it in design. 
Perfect in each minutest part, 
A marvel of the lutist's art; 
And in its hollow chamber, thus. 
The maker from whose hands it came 



18 TALES OF A IV AY SIDE INN. 

Had written his unrivalled name, — 
''Antonius Stradivarius." 

And when he played, the atmosphere 
Was filled with magic, and the ear 
Caught echoes of that Harp of Gold, 
Whose music had so weird a sound, 
The hunted stag forgot to bound. 
The leaping rivulet backward rolled. 
The birds came down from bush and tree, 
The dead came from beneath the sea. 
The maiden to the harper's knee ! 

The music ceased; the applause was loud. 
The pleased musician smiled and bowed; 
The wood-fire clapped its hands of flame, 
The shadows on the wainscot stirred, 
And from the harpsichord there came 
A ghostly murmur of acclaim, 
A sound like that sent down at night 



THE IV AYS IDE INN. 19 



By birds of passage in their flight, 
From the remotest distance heard. 

Then silence followed; then began 
A clamor for the Landlord's tale, — 
The story promised them of old, 
They said, but always left untold; 
And he, although a bashful man, 
And all his courage seemed to fail, 
Finding excuse of no avail, 
Yielded; and thus the story ran. 



THE LANDLORD'S TALE. 

PAUL REVERE'S ride. 

Listen, my children, and you shall hear 

Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, 

On the eighteenth of. April, in Seventy-five; 

Hardly a man is now alive 

Who remembers that famous day and year. 

He said to his friend, "If the British march 
By land or sea from the town to-night, 
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch 
Of the North Church tower as a signal light, ■ 
One, if by land, and two, if by sea; 
And I on the opposite shore will be, 
20 



PAUL RE WE RE'S RIDE. 21 

Ready to ride and spread the alarm 
Through every Middlesex village and farm, 
For the country-folk to be up and to arm." 

Then he said, ''Good night!" and with muffled 

oar 
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore. 
Just as the moon rose over the bay. 
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay 
The Somerset, British man-of-war; 
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar 
Across the moon like a prison bar. 
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified 
By its own reflection in the tide. 

Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street, 
Wanders and watches with eager ears, 
Till in the silence around him he hears 
The muster of men at the barrack door, 
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, 



22 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

And the measured tread of the grenadiers, 
Marching down to their boats on the shore. 

Then he climbed to the tower of the church, 
Up the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread. 
To the belfry-chamber overhead, 
And startled the pigeons from their perch 
On the sombre rafters, that round him made 
Masses and moving shapes of shade, — 
Up the trembling ladder, steep and tall, 
To the highest wnndow in the wall, 
Where he paused to listen and look down 
A moment on the roofs of the town, 
And the moonlight flowing over all. 

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead, 
In their night-encampment on the hill, 
Wrapped in silence so deep and still 
That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread, 
The watchful night-wind, as it went 



PAUL REVERE'S RIDE. 23 

Creeping along from tent to tent, 

And seeming to whisper, "All is well!" 

A moment only he feels the spell 

Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread 

Of the lonely belfry and the dead; 

For suddenly all his thoughts are bent 

On a shadowy something far away. 

Where the river widens to meet the bay, — 

A line of black that bends and floats 

On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats. 

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride. 
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride 
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere. 
Now he patted his horse's side, 
Now gazed at the landscape far and near, 
Then, impetuous, stamped the earth, 
And turned and tightened his saddle-girth; 
But mostly he watched with eager search 
The belfry-tower of the old North Church, 



24 TALES OF A IVAYSIDE INN. 

As it rose above the graves on the hill, 
Lonely and spectral and sombre and still. 
And lo ! as he looks, on the belfry's height 
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light! 
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, 
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight 
A second lamp in the belfry burns ! 

A hurry of hoofs in a village street, 

A shape in the moonhght, a bulk in the dark, 

And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a 

spark 
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and 

fleet; 
That was all ! And yet, through the gloom and 

the Hght, 
The fate of a nation was riding that night; 
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his 

flight, 
Kindled the land into flame with its heat. 



PAUL REI^ERE'S RIDE, 25 

He has left the village and mounted the steep, 
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep, 
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides; 
And under the alders, that skirt its edge, 
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge, 
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides. 

It was twelve by the village clock 

When he crossed the bridge into Medford town. 

He heard the crowing of the cock. 

And the barking of the farmer's dog, 

And felt the damp of the river fog. 

That rises after the sun goes down. 

It was one by the village clock, 

When he galloped into Lexington. 

He saw the gilded weathercock 

Swim in the moonlight as he passed, 

And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, 

Gaze at him with a spectral glare, 



26 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

As if they already stood aghast 

At the bloody work they would look upon. 

It was two by the village clock, 

When he came to the bridge in Concord town. 

He heard the bleating of the flock, 

And the twitter of birds among the trees. 

And felt the breath of the morning breeze 

Blowing over the meadows brown. 

And one was safe and asleep in his bed 

Who at the bridge would be first to fall, 

Who that day would be lying dead, 

Pierced by a British musket-ball. 

You know the rest. In the books you have read, 
How the British Regulars fired and fled, — 
How the farmers gave them ball for ball. 
From behind each fence and farm-yard wall. 
Chasing the red-coats down the lane. 
Then crossing the fields to emerge again 



PAUL RE {HERE'S RIDE. 27 

Under the trees at the turn of the road, 
And only pausing to fire and load. 

So through the night rode Paul Revere; 

And so through the night went his cry of alarm 

To every Middlesex village and farm, — 

A cry of defiance and not of fear, 

A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, 

And a word that shall echo forevermore ! 

For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, 

Through all our history, to the last, 

In the hour of darkness and peril and need. 

The people will waken and listen to hear 

The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed, 

And the midnight message of Paul Revere. 



INTERLUDE. 

The Landlord ended thus his tale, 
Then rising took down from its nail 
The sword that hung there, dim with dust, 
And cleaving to its sheath with rust. 
And said, ''This sword was in the fight." 
The Poet seized it, and exclaimed, 
"It is the sword of a good knight. 
Though homespun was his coat-of-mail; 
What matter if it be not named 
Joyeuse, Colada, Durindale, 
Excalibur, or Aroundight, 
Or other name the books record? 
Your ancestor, who bore this sword 
As Colonel of the Volunteers, 
Mounted upon his old gray mare, 
28 



INTERLUDE. 29 

Seen here and there and everywhere, 
To me a grander shape appears 
Than old Sir William, or what not, 
Clinking about in foreign lands 
With iron gauntlets on his hands, 
And on his head an iron pot!" 

All laughed; the Landlord's face grew red 
As his escutcheon on the wall; 
He could not comprehend at all 
The drift of what the Poet said; 
For those who had been longest dead 
Were always greatest in his eyes; 
And he was speechless with surprise 
To see Sir WiUiam's plumed head 
Brought to a level with the rest, 
And made the subject of a jest. 

And this perceiving, to appease 

The Landlord's wrath, the others' fears, 



30 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

The Student said, with careless ease, 

"The ladies and the cavaliers, 

The arms, the loves, the courtesies, 

The deeds of high emprise, I sing ! 

Thus Ariosto says, in words 

That have the stately stride and ring 

Of armed knights and clashing swords. 

Now listen to the tale I bring; 

Listen ! though not to me belong 

The flowing draperies of his song. 

The words that rouse, the voice that charms. 

The Landlord's tale was one of arms, 

Only a tale of love is mine, 

Blending the human and divine, 

A tale of the Decameron, told 

In Palmieri's garden old. 

By Fiametta, laurel-crowned. 

While her companions lay around. 

And heard the intermingled sound 

Of airs that on their errands sped. 



INTERLUDE. 31 

And wild birds gossiping overhead, 
And lisp of leaves, and fountain's fall, 
And her own voice more sweet than all, 
Telling the tale, which, wanting these, 
Perchance may lose its power to please." 



THE STUDENT'S TALE. 

THE FALCON OF SER FEDERIGO. 

One summer morning, when the sun was hot, 
Weary with labor in his garden-plot. 
On a rude bench beneath his cottage eaves, 
Ser Federigo sat among the leaves 
Of a huge vine, that, with its arms outspread, 
Hung its delicious clusters overhead. 
Below him, through the lovely valley, flowed 
The river Arno, Hke a winding road. 
And from its banks were lifted high in air 
The spires and roofs of Florence called the Fair; 
To him a marble tomb, that rose above 
His wasted fortunes and his buried love. 
For there, in banquet and in tournament, 
32 



THE FALCON OF SER FEDERIGO. 33 

His wealth had lavished been, his substance spent, 
To woo and lose, since ill his wooing sped, 
Monna Giovanna, who his rival wed, 
Yet ever in his fancy reigned supreme, 
The ideal woman of a young man's dream. 

Then he withdrew, in poverty and pain, 

To this small farm, the last of his domain, 

His only comfort and his only care 

To prune his vines, and plant the fig and pear: 

His only forester and only guest 

His falcon, faithful to him, when the rest. 

Whose willing hands had found so light of yore 

The brazen knocker of his palace door. 

Had now no strength to lift the wooden latch, 

That entrance gave beneath a roof of thatch. 

Companion of his solitary ways, 

Purveyor of his feasts on holidays, 

On him this melancholy man bestowed 

The love with which his nature overflowed. 



34 T.4LES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

And so the empty-handed years went round, 
Vacant, though voiceful with prophetic sound, 
And so, that summer morn, he sat and mused 
With folded, patient hands, as he was used, 
And dreamily before his half-closed sight 
Floated the vision of his lost delight. 
Beside him, motionless, the drowsy bird 
Dreamed of the chase, and in his slumber heard 
The sudden, scythe-like sweep of wings, that 

dare # 

The headlong plunge thro' eddying gulfs of air. 
Then, starting broad awake upon his perch, 
Tinkled his bells, like mass-bells in a church, 
And, looking at his master, seemed to say, 
''Ser Federigo, shall we hunt to-day?" 

Ser Federigo thought not of the chase; 
The tender vision of her lovely face, 
I will not say he seems to see, he sees 
In the leaf-shadows of the trellises, 



THE FALCON OF SER FEDERIGO. 35 

Herself, yet not herself; a lovely child 
With flowing tresses, and eyes wide and wild, 
Coming undaunted up the garden walk, 
And looking not at him, but at the hawk. 
''Beautiful falcon!" said he, ''would that I 
Might hold thee on my wrist, or see thee fly!" 
The voice was hers, and made strange echoes start 
Through all the haunted chambers of his heart, 
As an aeolian harp through gusty doors 
Of some old ruin its wild music pours. 

"Who is thy mother, my fair boy?" he said, 
His hand laid softly on that shining head. 
"Monna Giovanna. — Will you let me stay 
A little while, and with your falcon play? 
We live there, just beyond your garden wall, 
In the great house behind the poplars tall." 

So he spake on; and Federigo heard 
As from afar each softly uttered word, 



3G TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

And drifted onward through the golden gleams 
And shadows of the misty sea of dreams, 
As mariners becalmed through vapors drift, 
And feel the sea beneath them sink and lift, 
And hear far off the mournful breakers roar, 
And voices calling faintly frcm the shore ! 
Then, waking from his pleasant reveries, 
He took the little boy upon his knees. 
And told him stories of his gallant bird. 
Till in their friendship he became a third. 

Monna Giovanna, widowed in her prime, 

Had come with friends to pass the summer time 

In her grand villa, half-way up the hill, 

O'erlooking Florence, but retired and still ; 

With iron gates, that opened through long lines 

Of sacred ilex and centennial pines. 

And terraced gardens, and broad steps of stone, 

And sylvan deities, with moss o'ergrown. 

And fountains palpitating in the heat. 

And all Val d'Arno stretched beneath its feet. 



THE FALCON OF SER FEDERIGO. 37 

Here in seclusion, as a widow may, 
The lovely lady whiled the hours away, 
Pacing in sable robes the statued hall. 
Herself the stateliest statue among all, 
And seeing more and more, with secret joy. 
Her husband risen and living in her boy. 
Till the lost sense of life returned again, 
Not as delight, but as relief from pain. 
Meanwhile the boy, rejoicing in his strength. 
Stormed down the terraces from length to length ; 
The screaming peacock chased in hot pursuit. 
And climbed the garden trellises for fruit. 
But his chief pastime was to watch the flight 
Of a gerfalcon, soaring into sight. 
Beyond the trees that fringed the garden wall, 
Then downward stooping at some distant call; 
And as he gazed full often wondered he 
Who might the master of the falcon be, 
Until that happy morning, when he found 
Master and falcon in the cottage ground. 



38 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

And now a shadow and a terror fell 
On the great house, as if a passing-bell 
Tolled from the tower, and filled each spacious 

room 
With secret awT, and preternatural gloom; 
The petted boy grew ill, and day by day 
Pined with mysterious malady away. 
The mother's heart would not be comforted; 
Her darling seemed to her already dead, 
And often, sitting by the sufferer's side, 
''What can I do to comfort thee?" she cried. 
At first the silent lips made no reply, 
But, moved at length by her importunate cry, 
"Give me," he answered, with imploring tone, 
"Ser Federigo's falcon for my own!" 

No answer could the astonished mother make; 
How could she ask, e'en for her darling's sake, 
Such favor at a luckless lover's hand, 
Well knowing that to ask was to command? 



THE FALCON OF SER FEDERIGO. 39 

Well knowing, what all falconers confessed, 
In all the land that falcon was the best. 
The master's pride and passion and delight, 
And the sole pursuivant of this poor knight. 
But yet, for her child's sake, she could no less 
Than give assent, to soothe his restlessness; 
So promised, and then promising to keep 
Her promise sacred, saw him fall asleep. 

The morrow was a bright September morn; 

The earth was beautiful as if new-born; 

There was that nameless splendor everywhere, 

That wild exhilaration in the air. 

Which makes the passers in the city street 

Congratulate each other as they meet. 

Two lovely ladies, clothed in cloak and hood. 

Passed through the garden gate into the wood. 

Under the lustrous leaves, and through the 

sheen 
Of dewy sunshine showering down between. 



40 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

The one, close-hooded, had the attractive grace 
Which sorrow sometimes lends a woman's face; 
Her dark eyes moistened with the mists that 

roll 
From the gulf -stream of passion in the soul; 
The other with her hood thrown back, her hair 
Making a golden glory in the air. 
Her cheeks suffused with an auroral blush. 
Her young heart singing louder than the thrush. 
So walked, that morn, through mingled hght and 

shade, 
Each by the other's presence lovelier made, 
Monna Giovanna and her bosom friend, 
Intent upon their errand and its end. 

They found Ser Federigo at his toil. 
Like banished Adam, delving in the soil; 
And when he looked and these fair women spied. 
The garden suddenly was glorified; 
His long-lost Eden was restored again. 



THE FALCON OF SER FEDERIGO. 41 

And the strange river winding through the 

plain 
No longer was the Arno to his eyes, 
But the Euphrates watering Paradise ! 

Monna Giovanna raised her stately head, 
And with fair words of salutation said: 
"Ser Federigo, we come here as friends, 
Hoping in this to make some poor amends 
For past unkindness. I who ne'er before 
Would even cross the threshold of your door, 
I who in happier days such pride maintained, 
Refused your banquets, and your gifts dis- 
dained, 
This morning come, a self-invited guest, 
To put your generous nature to the test, 
And breakfast with you under your own vine." 
To which he answered: "Poor desert of mine. 
Not your unkindness call it, for if aught 
Is good in me of feeling or of thought. 



42 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

From you it comes, and this last grace out- 
weighs 
All sorrows, all regrets of other days." 

And after further compHment and talk, 

Among the dahlias in the garden walk 

He left his guests; and to his cottage turned. 

And as he entered for a moment yearned 

For the lost splendors of the days of old. 

The ruby glass, the silver and the gold. 

And felt how piercing is the sting of pride. 

By want embittered and intensified. 

He looked about him for some means or way 

To keep this unexpected holiday; 

Searched every cupboard, and then searched 

again. 
Summoned the maid, who came, but came in 

vain ; 
"The Signor did not hunt to-day," she said, 
"There 's nothing in the house but wine and 

bread." 



THE FALCON OF SER FEDERIGO. 43 

Then suddenly the drowsy falcon shook 
His little bells, with that sagacious look, 
Which said, as plain as language to the ear, 
*'If anything is wanting, I am here!" 
Yes, everything is wanting, gallant bird ! 
The master seized thee without further word. 
Like thine ow^n lure, he whirled thee round; ah 

me ! 
The pomp and flutter of brave falconry. 
The bells, the jesses, the bright scarlet hood, 
The flight and the pursuit o'er field and wood, 
All these forevermore are ended now; 
No longer victor, but the victim thou ! 

Then on the board a snow-white cloth he spread. 
Laid on its wooden dish the loaf of bread. 
Brought purple grapes with autumn sunshine 

hot, 
The fragrant peach, the juicy bergamot; 
Then in the midst a flask of wine he placed, 



44 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

And with autumnal flowers the banquet graced. 

Ser Federigo, would not these suffice 

Without thy falcon stuffed with cloves and spice ? 

When all was ready, and the courtly dame 
With her companion to the cottage came, 
Upon Ser Federigo's brain there fell 
The wild enchantment of a magic spell; 
The room they entered, mean and low and 

small, 
Was changed into a sumptuous banquet-hall. 
With fanfares by aerial trumpets blown; 
The rustic chair she sat on was a throne; 
He ate celestial food, and a divine 
Flavor was given to his country wine. 
And the poor falcon, fragrant with his spice, 
A peacock was, or bird of paradise ! 

When the repast was ended, they arose 
And passed again into the garden-close. 



THE FALCON OF SER FEDERIGO. 45 

Then said the lady, ''Far too well I know, 
Remembering still the days of long ago. 
Though you betray it not, with what surprise 
You see me here in this famiUar wise. 
You have no children, and you cannot guess 
What anguish, what unspeakable distress 
A mother feels, whose child is lying ill, 
Nor how her heart anticipates his will. 
And yet for this, you see me lay aside 
All womanly reserve and check of pride, 
And ask the thing most precious in your sight, 
Your falcon, your sole comfort and delight. 
Which if you find it in your heart to give. 
My poor, unhappy boy perchance may Uve." 

Ser Federigo listens, and replies. 
With tears of love and pity in his eyes : 
"Alas, dear lady! there can be no task 
So sweet to me, as giving when you ask. 
One httle hour ago, if I had known 



46 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

This wish of yours, it would have been my 

own. 
But thinking in what manner I could best 
Do honor to the presence of my guest, 
I deemed that nothing worthier could be 
Than what most dear and precious was to me. 
And so my gallant falcon breathed his last 
To furnish forth this morning our repast." 

In mute contrition, mingled with dismay, 
The gentle lady turned her eyes away. 
Grieving that he such sacrifice should make, 
And kill his falcon for a woman's sake. 
Yet feeling in her heart a woman's pride. 
That nothing she could ask for was denied; 
Then took her leave, and passed out at the gate 
With footstep slow and soul disconsolate. 

Three days went by, and lo ! a passing-bell 
Tolled from the little chapel in the dell; 



THE FALCON OF SER FEDERIGO. 47 

Ten strokes Ser Federigo heard, and said, 
Breathing a prayer, "Alas! her child is dead!" 
Three months went by; and lo ! a merrier 

chime 
Rang from the chapel bells at Christmas time; 
The cottage was deserted, and no more 
Ser Federigo sat beside its door. 
But now, with servitors to do his will, 
In the grand villa, half-way up the hill. 
Sat at the Christmas feast, and at his side 
Monna Giovanna, his beloved bride. 
Never so beautiful, so kind, so fair, 
Enthroned once more in the old rustic chair. 
High-perched upon the back of which there 

stood 
The image of a falcon carved in wood. 
And underneath the inscription, with a date, 
"All things come round to him who will but 

wait." 



INTERLUDE. 

Soon as the story reached its end, 
One, over eager to commend, 
Crowned it with injudicious praise; 
And then the voice of blame found vent. 
And fanned the embers of dissent 
Into a somewhat lively blaze. 

The Theologian shook his head; 
''These old Italian tales," he said, 
"From the much-praised Decameron down 
Through all the rabble of the rest, 
Are either trifling, dull, or lewd; 
The gossip of a neighborhood 
In some remote provincial town, 
A scandalous chronicle at best ! 
48 



INTERLUDE. 49 

They seem to me a stagnant fen, 
Grown rank with rushes and with reeds, 
Where a white lily, now and then, 
Blooms in the midst of noxious weeds 
And deadly nightshade on its banks." 

To this the Student straight replied, 

''For the white Uly, many thanks! 

One should not say, with too much pride. 

Fountain, I will not drink of thee ! 

Nor were it grateful to forget. 

That from these reservoirs and tanks 

Even imperial Shakspeare drew 

His Moor of Venice and the Jew, 

And Romeo and Juliet, 

And many a famous comedy." 

Then a long pause; till some one said, 

"An Angel is flying overhead!" 

At these words spake the Spanish Jew, 



50 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

And murmured with an inward breath: 
"God grant, if what you say is true, 
It may not be the Angel of Death 1" 

And then another pause; and then, 

Stroking his beard, he said again: 

''This brings back to my memory 

A story in the Talmud told. 

That book of gems, that book of gold, 

Of wonders many and manifold, 

A tale that often comes to me. 

And fills my heart, and haunts my brain, 

And never wearies nor grows old." 



THE SPANISH JEW'S TALE. 

THE LEGEND OF RABBI BEN LEVI. 

Rabbi Ben Levi, on the Sabbath, read 
A volume of the Law, in which it said, 
''No man shall look upon my face and live." 
And as he read, he prayed that God would give 
His faithful servant grace with mortal eye 
To look upon His face and yet not die. 

Then fell a sudden shadow on the page 
And, lifting up his eyes, grown dim with age. 
He saw the Angel of Death before him stand, 
Holding a naked sword in his right hand. 
Rabbi Ben Levi was a righteous man. 
Yet through his veins a chill of terror ran. 
51 



52 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

With trembling voice he said, "What wik thou 

here?" 
The angel answered, *'Lo! the time draws 

near 
When thou must die; yet first, by God's decree, 
Whate'er thou askest shall be granted thee." 
Replied the Rabbi, "Let these Uving eyes 
First look upon my place in Paradise." 

Then said the Angel, "Come with me and 

look." 
Rabbi Ben Levi closed the sacred book, 
And rising, and uplifting his gray head, 
"Give me thy sword," he to the Angel said, 
"Lest thou shouldst fall upon me by the way." 
The Angel smiled and hastened to obey, 
Then led him forth to the Celestial Town, 
And set him on the wall, whence, gazing down. 
Rabbi Ben Levi, with his living eyes, 
Might look upon his place in Paradise. 



THE LEGEND OF RABBI BEN LEI/ J. 53 

Then straight into the city of the Lord 

The Rabbi leaped with the Death- Angel's sword. 

And through the streets there swept a sudden 

breath 
Of something there unknown, which men call 

death. 
Meanwhile the Angel stayed without, and cried, 
"Come back!" To which the Rabbi's voice 

replied, 
''No! in the name of God, whom I adore, 
I swear that hence I will depart no more!" 

Then all the Angels cried, ''O Holy One, 
See what the son of Levi here has done ! 
The kingdom of Heaven he takes by violence, 
And in Thy name refuses to go hence ! " 
The Lord replied, *'My Angels, be not wroth; 
Did e'er the son of Levi break his oath? 
Let him remain; for he with mortal eye 
Shall look upon my face and yet not die." 



54 TALES OF A IV AY SIDE INN. 

Beyond the outer wall the Angel of Death 
Heard the great voice, and said, with panting 

breath, 
''Give back the sword, and let me go my way." 
Whereat the Rabbi paused, and answered, "Nay ! 
Anguish enough already has it caused 
Among the sons of men." And while he paused 
He heard the awful mandate of the Lord 
Resounding through the air, "Give back the 

sword !" 

The Rabbi bowed his head in silent prayer; 
Then said he to the dreadful Angel, "Swear, 
No human eye shall look on it again; 
But when thou takest away the souls of men. 
Thyself unseen, and with an unseen sword, 
Thou wilt perform the bidding of the Lord." 

The Angel took the sword again, and swore. 
And walks on earth unseen forevermore. 



INTERLUDE. 

He ended: and a kind of spell 

Upon the silent listeners fell. 

His solemn manner and his words 

Had touched the deep, mysterious chords, 

That vibrate in each human breast 

Alike, but not ahke confessed. 

The spiritual world seemed near; 

And close above them, full of fear, 

Its awful adumbration passed, 

A luminous shadow, vague and vast. 

They almost feared to look, lest there, 

Embodied from the impalpable air. 

They might behold the Angel stand, 

Holding the sword in his right hand. 
55 



56 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

At last, but in a voice subdued, 

Not to disturb their dreamy mood, 

Said the Sicilian: " While you spoke, 

Telling your legend marvellous. 

Suddenly in my memory woke 

The thought of one, now gone from us. 

An old Abate, meek and mild. 

My friend and teacher, when a child, 

Who sometimes in those days of old 

The legend of an Angel told. 

Which ran, if I remember, thus." 



THE SICILIAN'S TALE. 

KING ROBERT OF SICILY. 

Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane 
And Valmond, Emperor of AUemaine, 
Apparelled in magnificent attire, 
With retinue of many a knight and squire. 
On St. John's eve, at vespers, proudly sat 
And heard the priests chant the Magnificat. 
And as he listened, o'er and o'er again 
Repeated, Uke a burden or refrain. 
He caught the words, '' Deposuit potentes 
De sede, et exaltavU hvmiles^^ ; 
And slowly lifting up his kingly head 
He to a learned clerk beside him said, 
"What mean these words?" The clerk made 
answer meet, 

57 



58 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

''He has put down the mighty from their seat, 
And has exaUed them of low degree." 
Thereat King Robert muttered scornfully, 
'"T is well that such seditious words are sung 
Only by priests and in the Latin tongue; 
For unto priests and people be it known. 
There is no power can push me from my throne ! " 
And leaning back, he yawned and fell asleep. 
Lulled by the chant monotonous and deep. 

When he awoke, it was already night; 

The church was empty, and there was no light. 

Save where the lamps, that glimmered few and 

faint, 
Lighted a little space before some saint. 
He started from his seat and gazed around. 
But saw no living thing and heard no sound. 
He groped towards the door, but it was locked; 
He cried aloud, and listened, and then knocked, 
And uttered awful threatenings and complaints. 



KING ROBERT OF SICILY. 59 

And imprecations upon men and saints. 

The sounds re-echoed from the roof and walls 

As if dead priests were laughing in their stalls ! 

At length the sexton, hearing from without 
The tumult of the knocking and the shout, 
And thinking thieves were in the house of 

prayer, 
Came with his lantern, asking, "Who is there?" 
Half choked with rage. King Robert fiercely said, 
''Open: 'tis I, the King! Art thou afraid?" 
The frightened sexton, muttering, with a curse, 
"This is some drunken vagabond, or worse!" 
Turned the great key and flung the portal wide; 
A man rushed by him at a single stride. 
Haggard, half naked, without hat or cloak, 
Who neither turned, nor looked at him, nor 

spoke. 
But leaped into the blackness of the night, 
And vanished like a spectre from his sight. 



60 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane 
And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, 
Despoiled of his magnificent attire, 
Bare-headed, breathless, and besprent with 

mire. 
With sense of wrong and outrage desperate. 
Strode on and thundered at the palace gate; 
Rushed through the court-yard, thrusting in his 

rage 
To right and left each seneschal and page. 
And hurried up the broad and sounding stair. 
His white face ghastly in the torches' glare. 
From hall to hall he passed with breathless 

speed ; 
Voices and cries he heard, but did not heed. 
Until at last he reached the banquet-room. 
Blazing with light, and breathing with perfume. 

There on the dais sat another king. 
Wearing his robes, his crown, his signet-ring, 



KING ROBERT OF SICILY. 61 

King Robert's self in features, form, and 

height, 
But all transfigured with angelic light ! 
It was an Angel; and his presence there 
With a divine effulgence filled the air, 
An exaltation, piercing the disguise. 
Though none the hidden Angel recognize. 

A moment speechless, motionless, amazed. 
The throneless monarch on the Angel gazed. 
Who met his looks of anger and surprise 
With the divine compassion of his eyes; 
Then said, "Who art thou? and why com'st 

thou here?" 
To which King Robert answered, with a sneer, 
"I am the King, and come to claim my own 
From an impostor, who usurps my throne!" 
And suddenly, at these audacious words. 
Up sprang the angry guests, and drew their 

swords ; 



62 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

The Angel answered, with unruffled brow, 
''Nay, not the King, but the King's Jester, 

thou 
Henceforth shalt wear the bells and scalloped 

cape, 
And for thy counsellor shalt lead an ape; 
Thou shalt obey my servants when they call, 
And wait upon my henchmen in the hall!" 

Deaf to King Robert's threats and cries and 

prayers, 
They thrust him from the hall and down the 

stairs ; 
A group of tittering pages ran before, 
And as they opened wide the folding-door. 
His heart failed, for he heard, with strange 

alarms. 
The boisterous laughter of the men-at-arms, 
And all the vaulted chamber roar and ring 
With the mock plaudits of "Long Hve the 

Kins!" 



KING ROBERT OF SICILY. 63 

Next morning, waking with the day's first 

beam, 
He said within himself, "It was a dream!" 
But the straw rustled as he turned his head, 
There were the cap and bells beside his bed, 
Around him rose the bare, discolored walls, 
Close by, the steeds were champing in their 

stalls, 
And in the corner, a revolting shape, 
Shivering and chattering sat the wretched ape. 
It was no dream; the world he loved so much 
Had turned to dust and ashes at his touch ! 

Days came and went; and now returned again 

To Sicily the old Saturnian reign; 

Under the Angel's governance benign 

The happy island danced with corn and wine. 

And deep within the mountain's burning breast 

Enceladus, the giant, was at rest. 

Meanwhile King Robert yielded to his fate. 



64 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

Sullen and silent and disconsolate. 
Dressed in the motley garb that Jesters wear, 
With looks bewildered and a vacant stare, 
Close shaven above the ears, as monks are shorn, 
By courtiers mocked, by pages laughed to scorn, 
His only friend the ape, his only food 
What others left, — he still was unsubdued. 
And when the Angel met him on his way, 
And half in earnest, half in jest, would say. 
Sternly, though tenderly, that he might feel 
The velvet scabbard held a sword of steel, 
"Art thou the King?" the passion of his woe 
Burst from him in resistless overflow. 
And, lifting high his forehead, he would fling 
The haughty answer back, "I am, I am the 
King!" 

Almost three years were ended; when there 

came 
Ambassadors of great repute and name 



KING ROBERT OF SICILY. 6b 

From Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, 
Unto King Robert, saying that Pope Urbane 
By letter summoned them forthwith to come 
On Holy Thursday to his city of Rome. 
The Angel with great joy received his guests, 
And gave them presents of embroidered vests, 
And velvet mantles with rich ermine lined, 
And rings and jewels of the rarest kind. 
Then he departed with them o'er the sea 
Into the lovely land of Italy, 
Whose loveliness was more resplendent made 
By the mere passing of that cavalcade. 
With plumes, and cloaks, and housings, and 

the stir 
Of jewelled bridle and of golden spur. 

And lo ! among the menials, in mock state, 
Upon a piebald steed, with shambling gait. 
His cloak of fox-tails flapping in the wind, 
The solemn ape demurely perched behind, 



66 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

King Robert rode, making huge merriment 
In all the country towns through which they 
went. 

The Pope received them with great pomp, and 

blare 
Of bannered trumpets, on Saint Peter's square, 
Giving his benediction and embrace, 
Fervent, and full of apostolic grace. 
While with congratulations and with prayers 
He entertained the Angel unawares, 
Robert, the Jester, bursting through the crowd. 
Into their presence rushed, and cried aloud, 
'*I am the King! Look, and behold in me 
Robert, your brother, King of Sicily ! 
This man, who wears my semblance to your 

eyes, 
Is an impostor in' a king's disguise. 
Do you not know me? does no voice within 
Answer my cry, and say we are akin?" 



KING ROBERT OF SICILY. 67 

The Pope in silence, but with troubled mien, 
Gazed at the Angel's countenance serene; 
The Emperor, laughing, said, "It is strange 

sport 
To keep a madman for thy Fool at court!" 
And the poor, baffled Jester in disgrace 
Was hustled back among the populace. 

In solemn state the Holy Week went by. 
And Easter Sunday gleamed upon the sky; 
The presence of the Angel, with its light. 
Before the sun rose, made the city bright. 
And with new fervor filled the hearts of men, 
Who felt that Christ indeed had risen again. 
Even the Jester, on his bed of straw, 
With haggard eyes the unwonted splendor 

saw. 
He felt within a power unfelt before. 
And, kneeling humbly on his chamber floor. 
He heard the rushing garments of the Lord 



68 TALES OF A IVAYSIDE INN. 

Sweep through the silent air, ascending heaven- 
ward. 

And now the visit ending, and once more 
Valmond returning to the Danube's shore, 
Homeward the Angel journeyed, and again 
The land was made resplendent with his train, 
Flashing along the towns of Italy 
Unto Salerno, and from there by sea. 
And when once more within Palermo's wall, 
And, seated on the throne in his great hall. 
He heard the Angelus from convent towers. 
As if the better world conversed with ours. 
He beckoned to King Robert to draw nigher. 
And with a gesture bade the rest retire; 
And when they were alone, the Angel said, 
"Art thou the King?" Then bowing down 

his head. 
King Robert crossed both hands upon his breast, 
And meekly answered him: *'Thou knowest 

best! 



KING ROBERT OF SICILY. 69 

My sins as scarlet are; let me go hence, 
And in some cloister's school of penitence, 
Across those stones, that pave the way to 

heaven. 
Walk barefoot, till my guilty soul is shriven!" 
The Angel smiled, and from his radiant face 
A holy light illumined all the place, 
And through the open window, loud and clear. 
They heard the monks chant in the chapel near, 
Above the stir and tumult of the street: 
'*He has put down the mighty from their seat, 
And has exalted them of low degree!" 
And through the chant a second melody 
Rose like the throbbing of a single string: 
''I am an Angel, and thou art the King!" 

King Robert, who was standing near the throne. 

Lifted his eyes, and lo ! he was alone ! 

But all apparelled as in days of old, 

With ermined mantle and with cloth of gold; 



70 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

And when his courtiers came, they found him 

there 
Kneeling upon the floor, absorbed in silent 

prayer. 



INTERLUDE. 

And then the blue-eyed Norseman told 
A Saga of the days of old. 
"There is," said he, "a wondrous book 
Of Legends in the old Norse tongue, 
Of the dead kings of Norroway, — 
Legends that once were told or sung 
In many a smoky fireside nook 
Of Iceland, in the ancient day, 
By wandering Saga-man or Scald; 
Heimskringla is the volume called; 
And he who looks may find therein 
The story that I now begin." 

And in each pause the story made 
Upon his viohn he played, 
71 



72 T/iLES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

As an appropriate interlude, 

Fragments of old Norwegian tunes 

That bound in one the separate runes, 

And held the mind in perfect mood, 

Entwining and encircling all 

The strange and antiquated rhymes 

With melodies of olden times; 

As over some half-ruined wall, 

Disjointed and about to fall. 

Fresh woodbines climb and interlace, 

And keep the loosened stones in place. 



THE MUSICIAN'S TALE. 

THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 

I. 
THE CHALLENGE OF THOR. 

I AM the God Thor, 
I am the War God, 
I am the Thunderer! 
Here in my Northland, 
My fastness and fortress, 
Reign I forever ! 

Here amid icebergs 
Rule I the nations; 
This is my hammer, 
Miolner the mighty; 
Giants and sorcerers 
Cannot withstand it ! 
73 



74 TALES OF A iV AY SIDE INN. 

These are the gauntlets 
Wherewith I wield it, 
And hurl it afar off; 
This is my girdle; 
Whenever I brace it, 
Strength is redoubled ! 

The light thou beholdest 
Stream through the heavens, 
In flashes of crimson, 
Is but my red beard 
Blown by the night-wind. 
Affrighting the nations ! 

Jove is my brother; 

Mine eyes are the lightning; 

The wheels of my chariot 

Roll in the thunder, 

The blows of my hammer 

Ring in the earthquake ! 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 75 

Force rules the world still, 
Has ruled it, shall rule it; 
Meekness is weakness, 
Strength is triumphant, 
Over the whole earth 
Still is it Thor's-Day! 

Thou art a God too, 
O Gahlean ! 
And thus single-handed 
Unto the combat. 
Gauntlet or Gospel, 
Here I defy thee ! 

II. 

KING OLAF'S return. 

And King Olaf heard the cry. 
Saw the red light in the sky, 
Laid his hand upon his sword, 



'6 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

As he leaned upon the railing, 
And his ships went saiUng, sailing, 
Northward into Drontheim fiord. 

There he stood as one who dreamed; 
And the red light glanced and gleamed 

On the armor that he wore; 
And he shouted, as the rifled 
Streamers o'er him shook and shifted, 

"I accept thy challenge, Thor!" 

To avenge his father slain, 
And reconquer realm and reign. 

Came the youthful Olaf home. 
Through the midnight sailing, sailing, 
Listening to the wild wind's wailing, 

And the dashing of the foam. 

To his thoughts the sacred name 
Of his mother Astrid came. 
And the tale she oft had told 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 77 

Of her flight by secret passes 
Through the mountains and morasses, 
To the home of Hakon old. 

Then strange memories crowded back 
Of Queen Gunhild's wrath and wrack, 

And a hurried flight by sea; 
Of grim Vikings, and their rapture 
In the sea-fight, and the capture. 

And the Ufe of slavery. 

How a stranger watched his face 
In the Esthonian market-place, 

Scanned his features one by one. 
Saying, "We should know each other; 
I am Sigurd, Astrid's brother. 

Thou art Olaf, Astrid's son!" 

Then as Queen Allogia's page, 
Old in honors, young in age. 
Chief of all her men-at-arms; 



78 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

Till vague whispers, and mysterious, 
Reached King Valdemar, the imperious, 
Filling him with strange alarms. 

Then his cruisings o'er the seas, 
Westward to the Hebrides, 

And to Scilly's rocky shore; 
And the hermit's cavern dismal, 
Christ's great name and rites baptismal, 

In the ocean's rush and roar. 

All these thoughts of love and strife 
Glimmered through his lurid life, 

As the stars' intenser light 
Through the red flames o'er him trailing. 
As his ships went sailing, sailing. 

Northward in the summer night. 

Trained for either camp or court. 
Skilful in each manly sport, 
Young and beautiful and tall; 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 

Art of warfare, craft of chases, 
Swimming, skating, snow-shoe races, 
Excellent alike in all. 

When at sea, with all his rowers, 
He along the bending oars 

Outside of his ship could run. 
He the Smalsor Horn ascended. 
And his shining shield suspended 

On its summit, like a sun. 

On the ship-rails he could stand, 
Wield his sword with either hand, 

And at once two javelins throw; 
At all feasts where ale was strongest 
Sat the merry monarch longest, 

First to come and last to go. 

Norway never yet had seen 
One so beautiful of mien, 
One so royal in attire, 



80 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

When in arms completely furnished; 
Harness gold-inlaid and burnished, 
Mantle like a flame of fire. 

Thus came Olaf to his own, 
When upon the night-wind blown 

Passed that cry along the shore; 
And he answered, while the rifted 
Streamers o'er him shook and shifted, 

"I accept thy challenge, Thor!" 



THORA OF RIMOL. 

'^Thora of Rimol ! hide me! hide me! 
Danger and shame and death betide me ! 
For Olaf the King is hunting me down 
Through field and forest, through thorp and 
town!" 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAR 81 

Thus cried Jarl Hakon 

To Thora, the fairest of women. 



"Hakon Jarl! for the love I bear thee 
Neither shall shame not death come near thee ! 
But the hiding-place wherein thou must lie 
Is the cave underneath the swine in the sty." 

Thus to Jarl Hakon 

Said Thora, the fairest of women. 

So Hakon Jarl and his base thrall Karker 
Crouched in the cave, than a dungeon darker, 
As Olaf came riding, with men in mail, 
Through the forest roads into Orkadale, 
Demanding Jarl Hakon 
Of Thora, the fairest of women. 

"Rich and honored shall be w^hoever 
The head of Hakon Jarl shall dissever!" 



82 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

Hakon heard him, and Karker the slave, 
Through the breathing-holes of the darksome 
cave. 

Alone in her chamber 

Wept Thora, the fairest of women. 

Said Karker, the crafty, ''I will not slay thee! 
For all the king's gold I will never betray thee ! " 
''Then why dost thou turn so pale, O churl, 
And then again black as the earth?" said the 
Earl. 
More pale and more faithful 
Was Thora, the fairest of women. 

From a dream in the night the thrall started, 

saying, 
''Round my neck a gold ring King Olaf was 

laying!" 
And Hakon answered, "Beware of the king! 
He will lay round thy neck a blood-red ring." 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 83 

At the ring on her finger 

Gazed Thora, the fairest of women. 

At daybreak slept Hakon, with sorrows encum- 
bered, 
But screamed and drew up his feet as he 

slumbered ; 
The thrall in the darkness plunged with his 

knife, 
And the Earl awakened no more in this life. 
But wakeful and weeping 
Sat Thora, the fairest of women. 

At Nidarholm the priests are all singing, 
Two ghastly heads on the gibbet are swinging; 
One is Jarl Hakon's and one is his thrall's, 
And the people are shouting from windows and 
walls ; 
While alone in her chamber 
Swoons Thora, the fairest of women. 



84 TALES OF A IVAYSIDE INN. 

IV. 

QUEEN SIGRID THE HAUGHTY. 

Queen Sigrid the Haughty sat proud and aloft 
In her chamber, that looked over meadow and 
croft. 

Heart's dearest, 

Why dost thou sorrow so? 

The floor with tassels of fir was besprent. 
Filling the room with their fragrant scent. 

She heard the birds sing, she saw the sun shine. 
The air of summer was sweeter than wine. 

Like a sword without scabbard the bright river 

lay 
Between her own kingdom and Norroway. 

But Olaf the King had sued for her hand. 
The sword would be sheathed, the river be 
spanned. 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 85 

Her maidens were seated around her knee, 
Working bright figures in tapestry. 

And one was singing the ancient rune 

Of Brynhilda's love and the wrath of Gudrun. 

And through it, and round it, and over it all 
Sounded incessant the waterfall. 

The Queen in her hand held a ring of gold, 
From the door of Lade's Temple old. 

King Olaf had sent her this wedding gift. 
But her thoughts as arrows were keen and swift. 

She had given the ring to her goldsmiths twain, 
Who smiled, as they handed it back again. 

And Sigrid the Queen, in her haughty way, 
Said, ''Why do you smile, my goldsmiths, say?" 

And they answered: "O Queen! if the truth 

must be told, 
The ring is of copper, and not of gold!" 



86 TALES OF A IV AY SIDE INN. 

The lightning flashed o'er her forehead and 

cheek, 
She only murmured, she did not speak: 

*'If in his gifts he can faithless be, 
There will be no gold in his love to me." 

A footstep was heard on the outer stair, 
And in strode King Olaf with royal air. 

He kissed the Queen's hand, and he whispered 

of love. 
And swore to be true as the stars are above. 

But she smiled with contempt as she answered: 

^'O King, 
Will you swear it, as Odin once swore, on the 

ring?" 

And the King: '*0 speak not of Odin to me. 
The wife of King Olaf a Christian must be." 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 87 

Looking straight at the King, with her level 

brows, 
She said, ''I keep true to my faith and my vows." 

Then the face of King Olaf was darkened with 

gloom, 
He rose in his anger and strode through the 

room. 



*'Why, then, should I care to have thee?" he 

said, — 
"A faded old woman, a heathenish jade!" 

His zeal was stronger than fear or love. 
And he struck the Queen in the face with his 
glove. 

Then forth from the chamber in anger he fled, 
And the wooden stairway shook with his tread. 



88 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

Queen Sigrid the Haughty said under her breath, 
"This insult, King Olaf, shall be thy death!" 

Heart's dearest, 

Why dost thou sorrow so? 

V. 

THE SKERRY OF SHRIEKS. 

Now from all King Olaf's farms 

His men-at-arms 
Gathered on the Eve of Easter; 
To his house at Angvalds-ness 

Fast they press, 
Drinking with the royal feaster. 

Loudly through the wide-flung door 

Came the roar 
Of the sea upon the Skerry; 
And its thunder loud and near 

Reached the ear, 
Mingling with their voices merry. 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 89 

''Hark!" said Olaf to his Scald, 

Halfred the Bald, 
''Listen to that song, and learn it! 
Half my kingdom would I give, 

As I live, 
If by such songs you would earn it ! 

"For of all the runes and rhymes 

Of all times, 
Best I like the ocean's dirges, 
When the old harper heaves and rocks, 

His hoary locks 
Flowing and flashing in the surges!" 

Halfred answered: "I am called 

The Unappalled ! 
Nothing hinders me or daunts me. 
Hearken to me, then, O King, 

While I sing 
The great Ocean Song, that haunts me." 



90 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

''I will hear your song sublime 

Some other time," 
Says the drowsy monarch, yawning, 
And retires; each laughing guest 

Applauds the jest; 
Then they sleep till day is dawning. 

Pacing up and down the yard, 

King Olaf's guard 
Saw the sea-mist slowly creeping 
O'er the sands, and up the hill, 

Gathering still 
Round the house where they were sleeping. 

It was not the fog he saw. 

Nor misty flaw. 
That above the landscape brooded; 
It was Eyvind Kallda's crew 

Of warlocks blue. 
With their caps of darkness hooded ! 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 91 

Round and round the house they go, 

Weaving slow 
Magic circles to encumber 
And imprison in their ring 

Olaf the King, 
As he helpless lies in slumber. 

Then athwart the vapors dun 

The Easter sun 
Streamed with one broad track of splendor! 
In their real forms appeared 

The warlocks weird. 
Awful as the Witch of Endor. 

Blinded by the light that glared. 

They groped and stared 
Round about with steps unsteady; 
From his window Olaf gazed, 

And, amazed, 
''Who are these strange people?" said he. 



92 TALES OF A IVAYSIDE INN. 

"Eyvind Kallda and his men!" 

Answered then 
From the yard a sturdy farmer; 
While the men-at-arms apace 

Filled the place, 
Busily buckling on their armor. 

From the gates they sallied forth, 

South and north, 
Scoured the island coast around them, 
Seizing all the warlock band, 

Foot and hand 
On the Skerry's rocks they bound them. 

And at eve the king again 

Called his train, 
And, with all the candles burning, 
Silent sat and heard once more 

The sullen roar 
Of the ocean tides returning. 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 93 

Shrieks and cries of wild despair 

Filled the air, 
Growing fainter as they listened; 
Then the bursting surge alone 

Sounded on ; — 
Thus the sorcerers were christened ! 



''Sing, O Scald, your song sublime, 

Your ocean-rhyme," 
Cried King Olaf: "it will cheer me!" 
Said the Scald, with pallid cheeks, 

"The Skerry of Shrieks 
Sings too loud for you to hear me!" 



VI. 



THE WRAITH OF ODIN. 

The guests were loud, the ale was strong. 
King Olaf -feasted late and long; 



94 TALES OF A WAYSIDE JNN. 

The hoary Scalds together sang; 
O'erhead the smoky rafters rang. 

Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

The door swung wide, with creak and din; 
A blast of cold night-air came in, 
And on the threshold shivering stood 
A one-eyed guest, with cloak and hood. 
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

The King exclaimed, "O graybeard pale! 
Come warm thee with this cup of ale." 
The foaming draught the old man quaffed, 
The noisy guests looked on and laughed. 
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

Then spake the King: "Be not afraid; 
Sit here by me." The guest obeyed. 
And, seated at the table, told 
Tales of the sea, and Sagas old. 

Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 



THE SAG /I OF KING OLAF. 95 

And ever, when the tale was o'er, 
The King demanded yet one more; 
Till Sigurd the Bishop smihng said, 
'^'Tis late, O King, and time for bed." 
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

The King retired; the stranger guest 
Followed and entered with the rest; 
The lights were out, the pages gone, 
But still the garrulous guest spake on. 
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

As one who from a volume reads, 
He spake of heroes and their deeds, 
Of lands and cities he had seen, 
And stormy gulfs that tossed between. 
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

Then from his lips in music rolled 
The Havamal of Odin old, 



96 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

With sounds mysterious as the roar 
Of billows on a distant shore. 

Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 



"Do we not learn from runes and rhymes 
Made by the gods in elder times, 
And do not still the great Scalds teach 
That silence better is than speech?" 

Dead rides. Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 



Smiling at this, the King replied, 
''Thy lore is by thy tongue beHed; 
For never was I so enthralled 
Either by Saga-man or Scald." 

Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

The Bishop said, "Late hours w^e keep! 
Night wanes, O King! 'tis time for sleep! 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 97 

♦ 
Then slept the King, and when he woke 

The guest was gone, the morning broke. 

Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

They found the doors securely barred, 
They found the watch-dog in the yard, 
There was no footprint in the grass, 
And none had seen the stranger pass. 
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

King Olaf crossed himself and said: 
"I know that Odin the Great is dead; 
Sure is the triumph of our Faith, 
The one-eyed stranger was his wraith." 
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

VII. 
IRON-BEARD. 

Olaf the King, one summer morn, 
Blew a blast on his bugle-horn. 
Sending his signal through the land of Drontheim. 



98 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

And to the Hus-Ting held at Mere 
Gathered the farmers far and near, 
With their war weapons ready to confront him. 

Ploughing under the morning star. 
Old Iron-Beard in Yriar 
Heard the summons, chuckling with a low laugh. 

He wiped the sweat-drops from his brow, 
Unharnessed his horses from the plough, 
And clattering came on horseback to King Olaf. 

He was the churliest of the churls; 
Little he cared for king or earls; 
Bitter as home-brewed ale were his foaming pas- 
sions. 

Hodden-gray was the garb he wore, 
And by the Hammer of Thor he swore; < 
He hated the narrow town, and all its fashions. 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 99 

But he loved the freedom of his farm, 
His ale at night, by the fireside warm, 
Gudrun his daughter, with her flaxen tresses. 

He loved his horses and his herds, 
The smell of the earth, and the song of 
birds. 
His well-filled barns, his brook with its water- 
cresses. . 

Huge and cumbersome was his frame; 
His beard, from which he took his name, 
Frosty and fierce, Hke that of Hymer the Giant. 

So at the Hus-Ting he appeared. 
The farmer of Yriar, Iron-Beard, 
On horseback, with an attitude defiant. 

And to King Olaf he cried aloud. 
Out of the middle of the crowd, 
That tossed about him like a stormy ocean: 



100 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

"Such sacrifices shalt thou bring; 
To Odin and to Thor, O King, 
As other kings have done in their devotion ! " 

King Olaf answered: ''I command 
This land to be a Christian land; 
Here is my Bishop v^ho the folk baptizes ! 

"But if you ask me to restore 
Your sacrifices, stained with gore, 
Then will I offer human sacrifices ! 

"Not slaves and peasants shall they be, 
But men of note and high degree. 
Such men as Orm of Lyra and Kar of Gryting !" 

Then to their Temple strode he in. 
And loud behind him heard the din 
Of his men-at-arms and the peasants fiercely 
fighting. 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 101 

There in the Temple, carved in wood, 
The image of great Odin stood, 
And other gods, with Thor supreme among them. 

King Olaf smote them with the blade 
Of his huge war-axe, gold inlaid, 
And downward shattered to the pavement flung 
them 

At the same moment rose without, 
From the contending crowd, a shout, 
A mingled sound of triumph and of waiUng. 

And there upon the trampled plain 
The farmer Iron-Beard lay slain, 
Midway between the assailed and the assailing. 

King Olaf from the doorway spoke: 
''Choose ye between two things, my folk, 
To be baptized or given up to slaughter!" 



102 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

And seeing their leader stark and dead, 
The people with a murmur said, 
"O King, baptize us with thy holy water!" 

So all the Drontheim land became 
A Christian land in name and fame, 
In the old gods no more believing and trusting. 

And as a blood-atonement, soon 
King Olaf wed the fair Gudrun; 
And thus in peace ended the Drontheim Hus- 
Ting! 

VIII. 

GUDRUN. 

On King Olaf's bridal night 
Shines the moon with tender light, 
And across the chamber streams 
Its tide of dreams. 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 103 

At the fatal midnight hour, 
When all e\'il things have power, 
In the ghmmer of the moon 
Stands Gudrun. 

Close against her heaving breast, 
Something in her hand is pressed; 
Like an icicle, its sheen 
Is cold and keen. 

On the cairn are fixed her eyes 
Where her murdered father lies, 
And a voice remote and drear 
She seems to hear. 

What a bridal night is this ! 
Cold will be the dagger's kiss; 
Laden with the chill of death 
Is its breath. 

Like the drifting snow she sweeps 
To the couch where Olaf sleeps; 



104 TALES OF A IVAYSIDE INN. 

Suddenly he wakes and stirs, 
His eyes meet hers. 

''What is that," King Olaf said, 
''Gleams so bright above thy head? 
Wherefore standest thou so white 
In pale moonlight?" 

"'Tis the bodkin that I wear 
When at night I bind my hair; 
It woke me falling on the floor; 
'Tis nothing more." 

"Forests have ears, and fields have eyes; 
Often treachery lurking lies 
Underneath the fairest hair! 
Gudrun, beware!" 

Ere the earliest peep of morn 
Blew King Olaf's bugle-horn; 
And forever sundered ride 
Bridegroom and bride ! 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 105 



IX. 

THANGBRAND THE PRIEST. 

Short of stature, large of limb, 

Burly face and russet beard, 
All the women stared at him. 
When in Iceland he appeared. 
"Look!" they said, 
With nodding head, 
"There goes Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.'' 



All the prayers he knew by rote, 

He could preach like Chrysostome, 
From the Fathers he could quote, 
He had even been at Rome. 
A learned clerk, 
A man of mark, 
Was this Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest. 



106 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

He was quarrelsome and loud, 

And impatient of control, 
Boisterous in the market crowd, 
Boisterous at the wassail-bowl, 
Everywhere 

Would drink and swear, 
Swaggering Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest. 

In his house this malecontent 

Could the King no longer bear, 
So to Iceland he was sent 
To convert the heathen there. 
And away 
One summer day 
Sailed this Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest. 

There in Iceland, o'er their books 
Pored the people day and night, 

But he did not Uke their looks, 
Nor the songs they used to write. 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 10- 

''All this rhyme 
Is waste of time !" 
Grumbled Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest. 

To the alehouse, where he sat, 

Came the Scalds and Saga-men; 
Is it to be wondered at, 

That they quarrelled now and then, 
When o'er his beer 
Began to leer 
Drunken Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest? 

All the folk in Altafiord 

Boasted of their island grand; 
Saying in a single word, 
"Iceland is the finest land 
That the sun 
Doth shine upon!" 
Loud laughed Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest. 



108 TALES OF A IV AY SIDE INN. 

And he answered: "What's the use 

Of this bragging up and down, 
When three women and one goose 
Make a market in your town!" 
Every Scald 
Satires scrawled 
On poor Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest. 

Something worse they did than that; 

And what vexed him most of all 
Was a figure in shovel hat, 

Drawn in charcoal on the wall; 
With words that go 
Sprawling below, 
"This is Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest," 

Hardly knowing what he did. 

Then he smote them might and main, 
Thorvald Veile and Veterlid 

Lay there in the alehouse slain. 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF, 109 

*' To-day we are gold, 
To-morrow mould!" 
Muttered Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest. 

Much in fear of axe and rope, 

Back to Norway sailed he then. 
''O, King Olaf! little hope 

Is there of these Iceland men!" 
Meekly said, 
With bending head, 
Pious Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest. 

X. 

RAUD THE STRONG. 

"All the old gods are dead. 

All the wild warlocks fled; 

But the White Christ lives and reigns, 

And throughout my wide domains 

His Gospel shall be spread!" 



110 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

On the Evangelists 
Thus swore King Olaf. 

But still in dreams of the night 
Beheld he the crimson light, 
And heard the voice that defied 
Him who was crucified, 
And challenged him to the fight. 
To Sigurd the Bishop 
King Olaf confessed it. 

And Sigurd the Bishop said, 
"The old gods are not dead, 
For the great Thor still reigns, 
And among the Jarls and Thanes 
The old witchcraft still is spread." 
Thus to King Olaf 
Said Sigurd the Bishop. 

*'Far north in the Salten Fiord, 
By rapine, fire, and sword. 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. Ill 

Lives the Viking, Raud the Strong; 

All the Godoe Isles belong 

To him and his heathen horde." 

Thus went on speaking 

Sigurd the Bishop. 

''A warlock, a wizard is he, 
And lord of the wind and the sea; 
And whichever way he sails, 
He has ever favoring gales, 
By his craft in sorcery." 

Here the sign of the cross made 

Devoutly King Olaf. 

''With rites that we both abhor, 
He worships Odin and Thor; 
So it cannot yet be said, 
That all the old gods are dead, 
And the warlocks are no more," 

Flushing with anger 

Said Sigurd the Bishop. 



112 T/ILES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

Then King Olaf cried aloud: 
"I will talk with this mighty Raud, 
And along the Salten Fiord 
Preach the Gospel with my sword, 
Or be brought back in my shroud!'* 

So northward from Drontheim 

Sailed King Olaf 



BISHOP SIGURD AT SALTEN FIORD. 

Loud the angry wind was wailing 
As King Olaf's ships came sailing 
Northward out of Drontheim haven 
To the mouth of Salten Fiord. 

Though the flying sea-spray drenches 
Fore and aft the rowers' benches, 
Not a single heart is craven 

Of the champions there on board. 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 113 

All without the Fiord was quiet, 
But within it storm and riot, 
Such as on his Viking cruises 

Raud the Strong was wont to ride. 

And the sea through all its tide-wavs 
Swept the reeling vessels sideways, 
As the leaves are swept through sluices ^ 
When the flood-gates open wide. 

'"Tis the warlock! 'tis the demon 
Raud!" cried Sigurd to the seamen; 
"But the Lord is not affrighted 
By the witchcraft of His foes." 

To the ship's bow he ascended, 
By his choristers attended, 
Round him were the tapers lighted, 
And the sacred incense rose. 



114 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

On the bow stood Bishop Sigurd, 
In his robes, as one transfigured, 
And the Crucifix he planted 

High amid the rain and mist. 

Then with holy water sprinkled 
All the ship; the mass-bells tinkled; 
Loud the monks around him chanted, 
Loud he read the Evangelist. 

As into the Fiord they darted. 

On each side the water parted; " ^ 

Down a path Uke silver molten 

Steadily rowed King Olaf's ships; 

Steadily burned all night the tapers, 
And the White Christ through the vapors 
Gleamed across the Fiord of Salten, 
As through John's Apocalypse, — 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 115 

Till at last they reached Raud's dwelling 
On the little isle of Gelling; 
Not a guard was at the doorway, 
Not a gUmmer of light was seen. 

But at anchor, carved and gilded, 
Lay the dragon-ship he builded; 
'Twas the grandest ship in Norway, 
With its crest and scales of green. 

Up the stairw^ay, softly creeping, 
To the loft where Raud was sleeping, 
With their fists they burst asunder 
Bolt and bar that held the door. 

Drunken with sleep and ale they found him, 
Dragged him from his bed and bound him, 
While he stared with stupid wonder, 
At the look and garb they wore. 



116 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

Then King Olaf said: "O Sea-King! 
Little time have we for speaking, 
Choose between the good and evil; 
Be baptized, or thou shalt die'" 

But in scorn the heathen scoffer 
Answered: "I disdain thine offer, 
Neither fear I God nor Devil; 

Thee and thy Gospel I defy!" 

Then between his jaws distended. 
When his frantic struggles ended, 
Through King Olaf's horn an adder. 

Touched by fire, they forced to glide. 

Sharp his tooth was as an arrow. 

As he gnawed through bone and marrow; 

But without a groan or shudder, 

Raud the Strong blaspheming died. 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 117 

Then baptized they all that region, 
Swarthy Lap and fair Norwegian, 
Far as swims the salmon, leaping, 
Up the streams of Salten Fiord. 

In their temples Thor and Odin 
Lay in dust and ashes trodden. 
As King Olaf, onward sweeping, 

Preached the Gospel with his sword. 

Then he took the carved and gilded 
Dragon-ship that Raud had builded. 
And the tiller single-handed. 

Grasping, steered into the main. 

Southward sailed the sea-gulls o'er him, 
Southward sailed the ship that bore him, 
Till at Drontheim haven landed 
Olaf and his crew again. 



118 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

XII. 
KING OLAF'S CHRISTMAS. 

At Drontheim, Olaf the King 
Heard the bells of Yule-tide ring, 

As he sat in his banquet-hall, 
Drinking the nut-brown ale, 
With his bearded Berserks hale 

And tall. 

Three days his Yule-tide feasts 
He held with Bishops' and Priests, 

And his horn filled up to the brim; 
But the ale was never too strong. 
Nor the Saga-man's tale too long, 

For him. 

O'er his drinking-horn, the sign 
He made of the cross divine, 

As he drank, and muttered his prayers ; 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 119 

But the Berserks evermore 
Made the sign of the Hammer of Thor 
Over theirs. 

The gleams of the fire-light dance 
Upon helmet and hauberk and lance, 

And laugh in the eyes of the King; 
And he cries to Halfred the Scald, 
Gray-bearded, wrinkled, and bald, 

''Sing!" 

''Sing me a song divine. 
With a sword in every line, 

And this shall be thy reward." 
And he loosened the belt at his waist, 
And in front of the singer placed 

His sword. 

"Quern-biter of Hakon the Good, 
Wherewith at a stroke he hewed 

The millstone through and through, 



V 



120 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

And Foot-breadth of Thoralf the Strong, 
Were neither so broad nor so long, 
Nor so true." 

Then the Scald took his harp and sang, 
And loud through the music rang 

The sound of that shining word; 
And the harp-strings a clangor made. 
As if they were struck with the blade 

Of a sword. 

And the Berserks round about 
Broke forth into a shout 

That made the rafters ring: 
They smote with their fists on the board, 
And shouted, ''Long live the Sword, 

And the King!" 

But the King said, ''O my son, 
I miss the bright wori in one 

Of thy measures and thy rhymes." 



I 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 121 

And Halfred the Scald replied, 
*'In another 'twas multiplied 
Three times." 

Then King Olaf raised the hilt 
Of iron, cross-shaped and gilt, 

And said, "Do not refuse; 
Count well the gain and the loss, 
Thor's hammer or Christ's cross: 

Choose ! " 

And Halfred the Scald said, "This 
In the name of the Lord I kiss, 

Who on it was crucified!" 
And a shout went round the board, 
"In the name of Christ the Lord, 

Who died!" 

Then over the waste of snows 
The noonday sun uprose, 

Through the driving mists revealed, 



122 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

Like the lifting of the Host, 
By incense-clouds almost 
Concealed. 

On the shining wall a vast 
And shadowy cross was cast 

From the hilt of the lifted sword, 
And in foaming cups of ale 
The Berserks drank "Was-hael! 

To the Lord!" 



XIII. 
THE BUILDING OF THE LONG SERPENT. 

Thorberg Skafting, master-builder, 

In his ship-yard by the sea, 
Whistled, saying, '"Twould bewilder 
Any man but Thorberg Skafting, 
Any man but me ! " 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 123 

Near him lay the Dragon stranded, 
Built of old by Raud the Strong, 

And King Olaf had commanded 

He should build another Dragon, 
Twice as large and long. 

Therefore whistled Thorberg Skafting, 
As he sat with half-closed eyes. 

And his head turned sideways, drafting 

That new vessel for King Olaf 
Twice the Dragon's size. 

Round him busily hewed and hammered 

Mallet huge and heavy axe; 
Workmen laughed and sang and clamored; 
Whirred the wheels, that into rigging 

Spun the shining flax! 

All this tumult heard the master, — 
It was music to his ear; 



124 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

Fancy whispered all the faster, 
''Men shall hear of Thorberg Skafting 
For a hundred year!" 

Workmen sweating at the forges 

Fashioned iron bolt and bar, 
Like a warlock's midnight orgies 
Smoked and bubbled the black caldron 
With the boihng tar. 

Did the warlocks mingle in it, 

Thorberg Skafting, any curse? 
Could you not be gone a minute 
But some mischief must be doing, 
Turning bad to worse? 

'Twas an ill wind that came wafting. 

From his homestead words of woe; 
To his farm went Thorberg Skafting, 
Oft repeating to his workmen. 
Build ye thus and so. 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 125 

After long delays returning 

Came the master back by night; 
To his ship-yard longing, yearning, 
Hurried he, and did not leave it 
Till the morning's Hght. 

''Come and see my ship, my darling!" 
On the morrow said the King; 

"Finished now from keel to carling; 

Never yet was seen in Norway 
Such a wondrous thing ! " 

In the ship-yard, idly talking, 

At the ship the workmen stared: 
Some one, all their labor balking, 
Down her sides had cut deep gashes, 
Not a plank was spared ! 

''Death be to the evil-doer!" 

With an oath King Olaf spoke; 
"But rewards to his pursuer!" 



126 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

And with wrath his face grew redder 
Than his scarlet cloak. 

Straight the master-builder, smiling, 
Answered thus the angry King, 

''Cease blaspheming and reviling, 

Olaf, it was Thorberg Skafting 
Who has done this thing!" 

Then he chpped and smoothed the planking, 
Till the King, dehghted, swore, 

With much lauding and much thanking, 

"Handsomer is now my Dragon 
Than she was before ! " 

Seventy ells and four extended 

On the grass the vessel's keel; 

High above it, gilt and splendid, 

Rose the figure-head ferocious 
With its crest of steel. 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 127 

Then they launched her from the tressels, 

In the ship-yard by the sea; 
She was the grandest of all vessels, 
Never ship was built in Norway 

Half so fine as she ! 



The Long Serpent was she christened, 
'Mid the roar of cheer on cheer ! 
They who to the Saga listened 
Heard the name of Thorberg Skafting 
For a hundred year! 



XIV. 

THE CREW OF THE LONG SERPENT. 

Safe at anchor in Drontheim bay 
King Olaf's fleet assembled lay, 

And, striped with white and blue, 
Downward fluttered sail and banner, 



128 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

As alights the screaming lanner; 
Lustily cheered, in their wild manner, 
The Long Serpent's crew. 



Her forecastle man was Ulf the Red; 
Like a wolf's was his shaggy head, 

His teeth as large and white; 
His beard, of gray and russet blended. 
Round as a swallow's nest descended; 
As standard-bearer he defended 

Olaf's flag in the fight. 

Near him Kolbiorn had his place, 
Like the King in garb and face, 

So gallant and so hale; 
Every cabin-boy and varlet 
Wondered at his cloak of scarlet; 
Like a river, frozen and star-lit, 

Gleamed his coat of mail. 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 129 

By the bulkhead, tall and dark, 
Stood Thrand Rame of Thelemark, 

A figure gaunt and grand; 
On his hairy arm imprinted 
Was an anchor, azure-tinted; 
Like Thor's hammer, huge and dinted 

Was his brawnv hand. 



Einar Tamberskelver, bare 
To the winds his golden hair, 

By the mainmast stood; 
Graceful was his form, and slender. 
And his eyes were deep and tender 
As a woman's, in the splendor 

Of her maidenhood. 

In the fore-hold Biorn and Bork 
Watched the sailors at their work: 
Heavens ! how they swore ! 



130 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

Thirty men they each commanded, 
Iron-sinewed, horny-handed. 
Shoulders broad, and chests expanded. 
Tugging at the oar. 

These, and many more like these, 
With King Olaf sailed the seas, 

Till the waters vast 
Filled them with a vague devotion, 
With the freedom and the motion, 
With the roll and roar of ocean 

And the sounding blast. 

When they landed from the fleet. 

How they roared through Drontheim's street, 

Boisterous as the gale ! 
How they laughed and stamped and pounded, 
Till the tavern roof resounded. 
And the host looked on astounded 

As they drank the ale! 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 131 

Never saw the wild North Sea 
Such a gallant company 

Sail its billows blue ! 
Never, while they cruised and quarrelled, 
Old King Gorm, or Blue-Tooth Harald, 
Owned a ship so well apparelled, 

Boasted such a crew ! 



XV. 

A LITTLE BIRD IN THE AIR. 

A LITTLE bird in the air 
Is singing of Thyri the fair. 

The sister of Svend the Dane; 

And the song of the garrulous bird 

In the streets of the town is heard^ 

And repeated again and again. 

Hoist up your sails of silk. 

And flee away from each other. 



132 TALES Oh A WAYSIDE INN. 

To King Burislaf, it is said, 
Was the beautiful Thyri wed, 

And a sorrowful bride went she; 
And after a week and a day, 
She has fled away and away. 

From his town by the stormy sea. 
Hoist up your sails of silk, 
And flee away from each other. 

They say, that through heat and through cold. 
Through weald, they say, and through wold, 

By day and by night, they say. 

She has fled; and the gossips report 

She has come to King Olaf's court, 

And the town is all in dismay. 

Hoist up your sails of silk, 

And flee away from each other. 

It is whispered King Olaf has seen, 
Has talked with the beautiful Queen; 
And they wonder how it will end; 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 133 

For surely, if here she remain, 
It is war with King Svend the Dane, 
And King Burislaf the Vend I 
Hoist up your sails of silk, 
And flee away from each other. 

O, greatest wonder of all ! 

It is published in hamlet and hall, 

It roars like a flame that is fanned! 
The King — yes, Olaf the King — 
Has wedded her with his ring, 
And Thyri is Queen in the land! 
Hoist up your sails of silk, 
And flee away from each other. 



XVI. 
QUEEN THYRI AND THE ANGELICA STALKS. 

Northward over Drontheim, 
Flew the clamorous sea-gulls, 



134 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

Sang the lark and linnet 
From the meadows green; 

Weeping in her chamber, 
Lonely and unhappy, 
Sat the Drottning Thyri, 
Sat King Olaf's Queen. 

In at all the windows 
Streamed the pleasant sunshine, 
On the roof above her 
Softly cooed the dove; 

But the sound she heard not, 
Nor the sunshine heeded. 
For the thoughts of Thyri 
Were not thoughts of love. 

Then King Olaf entered. 
Beautiful as morning, 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 135 

Like the sun at Easter 
Shone his happy face; 

In his hand he carried 
Angelicas uprooted, 
With dehcious fragrance 
Fining all the place. 

Like a rainy midnight 
Sat the Drottning Thyri, 
Even the smile of Olaf 

Could not cheer her gloom; 

Nor the stalks he gave her 
With a gracious gesture, 
And with words as pleasant 
As their own perfume. 

In her hands he placed them, 
And her jewelled fingers 



136 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

Through the green leaves glistened 
Like the dews of morn; 

But she cast them from her, 
Haughty and indignant, 
On the floor she threw them 
With a look of scorn. 

"Richer presents," said she, 
''Gave King Harald Gormson 
To the Queen, my mother, 
Than such worthless weeds; 

''When he ravaged Norway, 
Laying waste the kingdom, 
Seizing scatt and treasure 
For her royal needs. 

"But thou darest not venture 
Through the Sound to Vendland, 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 1ST 

My domains to rescue 
From King Burislaf; 

"Lest King Svend of Denmark, 
Forked Beard, my brother, 
Scatter all thy vessels 
As the wind the chaff." 

Then up sprang King Olaf, 
Like a reindeer bounding, 
With an oath he answered 
Thus the luckless Queen: 

"Never yet did Olaf 
Fear King Svend of Denmark; 
This right hand shall hale him 
By his forked chin !" 

Then he left the chamber, 
Thundering through the doorway, 



138 TALES OF A IV AY SIDE INN. 

Loud his steps resounded 
Down the outer stair. 

Smarting with the insult, 
Through the streets of Drontheim 
Strode he red and wrathful, 
With his stately air. 

All his ships he gathered, 
Summoned all his forces, 
Making his war levy 
In the region round; 

Down the coast of Norway, 
Like a flock of sea-gulls, 
Sailed the fleet of Olaf 

Through the Danish Sound. 

With his own hand fearless, 
Steered he the Long Serpent, 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 139 

Strained the creaking cordage, 
Bent each boom and gaff; 

Till in Vendland landing, 
The domains of Thyri 
He redeemed and rescued 
From King Burislaf. 

Then said Olaf, laughing, 
''Not ten yoke of oxen 
Have the power to draw us 
Like a woman's hair! 

"Now will I confess it, 
Better things are jewels 
Than angelica stalks are 
For a Queen to wear." 

XVII. 
KING SVEND OF THE FORKED BEARD. 

Loudly the sailors cheered 
Svend of the Forked Beard, 



140 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

As with his fleet he steered 

Southward to Vendland; 
Where with their courses hauled 
All were together called, 
Under the Isle of Svald 
Near to the mainland. 

After Queen Gunhild's death, 
So the old Saga saith, 
PHghted King Svend his faith 

To Sigrid the Haughty; 
And to avenge his bride, 
Soothing her wounded pride, 
Over the waters wide 

King Olaf sought he. 

Still on her scornful face. 
Blushing with deep disgrace, 
Bore she the crimson trace 
Of Olaf's gauntlet; 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 141 

Like a malignant star, 
Blazing in heaven afar, 
Red shone the angry scar 
Under her frontlet. 

Oft to King Svend she spake, 
''For thine own honor's sake 
Shalt thou swift vengeance take 

On the vile coward !" 
Until the King at last, 
Gusty and overcast, 
Like a tempestuous blast 

Threatened and lowered. 

Soon as the Spring appeared, 
Svend of the Forked Beard 
High his red standard reared. 

Eager for battle; 
While every warlike Dane, 
Seizing his arms again, 



142 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

Left all unsown the grain, 
Unhoused the cattle. 

Likewise the Swedish King 
Summoned in haste a Thing, 
Weapons and men to bring 

In aid of Denmark; 
Eric the Norseman, too, 
As the war-tidings flew. 
Sailed with a chosen crew 

From Lapland and Finmark. 

So upon Easter day 

Sailed the three kings away. 

Out of the sheltered bay. 

In the bright season; 
With them Earl Sigvald came, 
Eager for spoil and fame; 
Pity that such a name 

Stooped to such treason! 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 143 

Safe under Svakl at last, 
Now were their anchors cast, 
Safe from the sea and blast, 

Plotted the three kings; 
While, with a base intent, 
Southward Earl Sigvald went. 
On a foul errand bent. 

Unto the Sea-kings. 

Thence to hold on his course. 
Unto King Olaf's force. 
Lying within the hoarse 

Mouths of Stet-haven; 
Him to ensnare and bring, 
Unto the Danish king. 
Who his dead corse would fling 

Forth to the raven ! 



144 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

XVIII. 
KING OLAF AND EARL SIGVALD. 

On the gray sea-sands 
King Olaf stands, 
Northward and seaward 
He points with his hands. 

With eddy and whirl 
The sea-tides curl, 
Washing the sandals 
Of Sigvald the Earl. 

The mariners shout, 
The ships swing about, 
The yards are all hoisted. 
The sails flutter out. 

The war-horns are played, 
The anchors are weighed. 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 145 

Like moths in the distance 
The sails flit and fade. 

The sea is hke lead, 
The harbor lies dead, 
As a corse on the sea-shore, 
Whose spirit has fled ! 

On that fatal day, 
The histories say, 
Seventy vessels 
Sailed out of the bay. 

But soon scattered wide 
O'er the billows they ride, 
While Sigvald and Olaf 
Sail side by side. 

Cried the Earl: ''Follow me! 
I your pilot will be, 
For I know all the channels 
Where flows the deep sea!" 



146 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

So into the strait 
Where his foes he in wait, 
Gallant King Olaf 
Sails to his fate ! 

Then the sea-fog veils 
The ships and their sails; 
Queen Sigrid the Haughty, 
Thy vengeance prevails ! 

XIX. 

KING OLAF'S war-horns. 

"Strike the sails!" King Olaf said; 
''Never shall men of mine take flight; 
Never away from bat lie I fled. 
Never away from my foes ! 

Let God dispose 
Of my life in the fight!" 

"Sound the horns!" said Olaf the King; 
And suddenly through the drifting brume 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 147 

The blare of the horns began to ring, 
Like the terrible trumpet shock 

Of Regnarock, 
On the Day of Doom ! 

Louder and louder the war-horns sang 
Over the level floor of the flood; 
All the sails came down with a clang, 
And there in the mist overhead 

The sun hung red 
As a drop of blood. 

Drifting down on the Danish fleet 
Three together the ships were lashed, 
So that neither should turn and retreat; 
In the midst, but in front of the rest 

The burnished crest 
Of the Serpent flashed. 

King Olaf stood on the quarter-deck, 
With bow of ash and arrows of oak, 



148 TALES OF A IVAYSIDE INN. 

His gilded shield was without a fleck, 
His helmet inlaid with gold, 

And in many a fold 
Hung his crimson cloak. 

On the forecastle Ulf the Red 
Watched the lashing of the ships; 
''If the Serpent lie so far ahead, 
We shall have hard work of it here," 

Said he with a sneer 
On his bearded lips. 

King Olaf laid an arrow on string, 
"Have I a coward on board?" said he. 
"Shoot it another way, O King!" 
Sullenly answered Ulf, 
The old sea-wolf; 
"You have need of me!" 

In front came Svend, the King of the Danes, 
Sweeping down with his fifty rowers; 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 1 I') 

To the right, the Swedish king with his thanes; 
And on board of the Iron Beard 

Earl Eric steered 
On the left with his oars. 

"These soft Danes and Swedes," said the 

King, 
"At home with their wdves had better stay, 
Than come within reach of my Serpent's sting ; 
But where Eric the Norseman leads 

Heroic deeds 
Will be done to-day!" 

Then as together the vessels crashed, 
Eric severed the cables of hide, 
With which King Olaf's ships were lashed. 
And left them to drive and drift 

With the currents swift 
Of the outward tide. 



150 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

Louder the war-horns growl and snarl, 
Sharper the dragons bite and sting ! 
Eric the son of Hakon Jarl 
A death-drink salt as the sea 

Pledges to thee, 
Olaf the King! 

XX. 

EINAR TAMBERSKELVER. 

It was Einar Tamberskelver 

Stood beside the mast; 
From his yew-bow, tipped with silver, 

Flew the arrows fast; 
Aimed at Eric unavaiUng, 

As he sat concealed. 
Half behind the quarter-railing. 

Half behind his shield. 

First an arrow struck the tiller, 
Just above his head; 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 151 

"Sing, O Eyviiid Skaldaspiller," 

Then Earl Eric said. 
"Sing the song of Hakon dying, 

Sing his funeral wail!" 
And another arrow flying 

Grazed his coat of mail. 

Turning to a Lapland yeoman, 

As the arrow passed, 
Said Earl Eric, "Shoot that bowman 

Standing by the mast." 
Sooner than the word was spoken 

Flew the yeoman's shaft; 
Einar's bow in twain was broken, 

Einar only laughed. 

"What was that?" said Olaf, standing 

On the quarter-deck. 
"Something heard I like the stranding 

Of a shattered wreck." 



152 TALES OF A IV AY SIDE INN. 

Einar then, the arrow taking 

From the loosened string, 
Answered, "That was Norway breaking 

From thy hand, O king!" 

*'Thou art but a poor diviner," 

Straightway Olaf said; 
"Take my bow, and swifter, Einar, 

Let thy shafts be sped." 
Of his bows the fairest choosing. 

Reached he from above; 
Einar saw the blood-drops oozing 

Through his iron glove. 

But the bow was thin and narrow; 

At the first assay. 
O'er its head he drew the arrow. 

Flung the bow aw^ay; 
Said, with hot and angry temper 

Flushing in his cheek, 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 153 

''Olaf! for so great a K'amper 
Are thy bows too weak!" 

Then, with smile of joy defiant 

On his beardless lip, 
Scaled he, light and self-reliant, 

Eric's dragon-ship. 
Loose his golden locks were flowing, 

Bright his armor gleamed; 
Like Saint Michael overthrowing 

Lucifer he seemed. 



XXI. 
KING OLAF'S death-drink. 

All day has the battle raged, 
All day have the ships engaged. 
But not yet is assuaged 
The vengeance of Eric the Earl. 



154 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

The decks with blood are red, 
The arrows of death are sped, 
The ships are filled with the dead, 
And the spears the champions hurl. 

They drift as wrecks on the tide. 
The grappling-irons are plied, 
The boarders climb up the side. 
The shouts are feeble and few. 



Ah ! never shall Norway again 
See her sailors come back o'er the main; 
They all lie wounded or slain, 
Or asleep in the billows blue ! 

Oi the deck stands Olaf the King, 
Around him whistle and sing 
The spears that the foemen fling, 

And the stones they hurl with their hands 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 155 

In the midst of the stones and the spears, 
Kolbiorn, the marshal, appears. 
His shield in the air he uprears, 
By the side of King Olaf he stands. 

Over the slippery wreck 
Of the Long Serpent's deck 
Sweeps Eric with hardly a check, 
His lips with anger are pale; 

He hews with his axe at the mast, 
Till it falls, with the sails overcast, 
Like a snow-covered pine in the vast 
Dim forests of Orkadale. 

Seeking King Olaf then, 
He rushes aft with his men, 
As a hunter into the den 

Of the bear, when he stands at bay. 



156 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

"Remember Jarl Hakon!" he cries; 
When lo ! on his wondering eyes, 
Two kingly figures arise, 
Two Olafs in warlike array! 

Then Kolbiorn speaks in the ear 
Of King Olaf a word of cheer, 
In a whisper that none may hear, 
With a smile on his tremulous lip; 

Two shields raised high in the air, 
Two flashes of golden hair, 
Two scarlet meteors' glare. 

And both have leaped from the ship. 

Earl Eric's men in the boats 
Seize Kolbiorn's shield as it floats, 
And cry, from their hairy throats, 
"See! it is Olaf the King!" 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 15^ 

While far on the opposite side 
Floats another shield on the tide, 
Like a jewel set in the wide 
Sea-current's eddying ring. 

There is told a wonderful tale, 
How the King stripped off his mail, 
Like leaves of the brown sea-kale, 
As he swam beneath the main; 

But the young grew old and gray, 
And never, by night or by day. 
In his kingdom of Norroway 
Was King Olaf seen again ! 

XXII. 
THE NUN OF NIDAROS. 

In the convent of Drontheim, 
Alone in her chamber 
Knelt Astrid the Abbess, 



158 T/iLES OF A IV AY SIDE INN. 

At midnight, adoring, 
Beseeching, entreating 
The Virgin and Mother. 

She heard in the silence 
The voice of one speaking, 
Without in the darkness, 
In gusts of the night-wind 
Now louder, now nearer, 
Now lost in the distance. 

The voice of a stranger 

It seemed as she listened, 

Of some one who answered. 

Beseeching, imploring, 

A cry from afar off 

She could not distinguish. 

The voice of Saint John, 
The beloved disciple, 
Who wandered and waited 



THE SAG^ OF KING OLAF. 159 

The Master's appearance, 
Alone in the darkness, 
Unshekered and friendless. 

"It is accepted 

The angry defiance. 

The challenge of battle! 

It is accepted, 

But not with the weapons 

Of war that thou wieldest i 

"Cross against corslet, 

Love against hatred, 

Peace-cry for war-cry ! 

Patience is powerful; 

He that o'ercometh 

Hath power o'er the nations ! 

"As torrents in summer, 
Half dried in their channels. 
Suddenly rise, though the 



160 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

Sky is still cloudless, 
For rain has been falling 
Far off at their fountains; 

''So hearts that are fainting 

Grow full to o'erflowing, 

And they that behold it ,J-^ 

Marvel, and know not r 

That God at their fountains 

Far off has been raining ! 

)( ''Stronger than steel 

Is the sword of the Spirit; 
Swifter than arrows 
The light of the truth is, 
Greater than anger 
Is love, and subdueth ! 

"Thou art a phantom, 
A shape of the sea-mist, 
A shape of the brumal 



X 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 161 

Rain, and the darkness 

Fearful and formless; 

Day dawns and thou art not ! 

''The dawn .is not distant, 
Nor is the night starless; 
Love is eternal ! 
God is still God, and 
His faith shall not fail us; 
Christ is eternal!" 



INTERLUDE. 

A STRAIN of music closed the tale, 
A low, monotonous, funeral wail. 
That with its cadence, wild and sweet, 
Made the long Saga more complete. 

''Thank God," the Theologian said, 

"The reign of violence is dead, 

Or dying surely from the world; 

While Love triumphant reigns instead, 

And in a brighter sky o'erhead 

His blessed banners are unfurled. 

And most of all thank God for this: 

The war and waste of clashing creeds 

Now end in words, and not in deeds. 

And no one suffers loss, or bleeds, 

For thoughts that men call heresies. 
162 



INTERLUDE. 163 

''I Stand without here in the porch, 

I hear the bell's melodious din, 

I hear the organ peal within, 

I hear the prayer, with words that scorch 

Like sparks from an inverted torch, 

I hear the sermon upon sin, 

With threatenings of the last account. 

And all, translated in the air. 

Reach me but as our dear Lord's Prayer. 

And as the Sermon on the Mount. 

''Must it be Calvin, and not Christ? 
Must it be Athanasian creeds. 
Or holy water, books, and beads? 
Must struggling souls remain content 
With councils and decrees of Trent? 
And can it be enough for these 
The Christian Church the year embalms 
With evergreens and boughs of palms, 
And fills the air with litanies? 



164 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

"1 know that yonder Pharisee 
Thanks God that he is not Uke me; 
In my humiUation dressed, 
I only stand and beat my breast, 
And pray for human charity. 

"Not to one church alone, but seven. 
The voice prophetic spake from heaven; 
And unto each the promise came. 
Diversified, but still the same; 
For him that overcometh are 
The new name written on the stone, 
The raiment white, the crown, the throne, 
And I will give him the Morning Star! 

"Ah! to how many Faith has been 
No evidence of things unseen. 
But a dim shadow, that recasts 
The creed of the Phantasiasts, 
For whom no Man of Sorrows died, 



INTERLUDE. 165 

For whom the Tragedy Divine 
Was but a symbol and a sign, 
And Christ a phantom crucified 1 

"For others a diviner creed 
Is Uving in the life they lead. 
The passing of their beautiful feet 
Blesses the pavement of the street, 
And all their looks and words repeat 
Old Fuller's saying, wise and sweet. 
Not as a vulture, but a dove, 
The Holy Ghost came from above. 

"And this brings back to me a tale 
So sad the hearer well may quail. 
And question if such things can be; 
Yet in the chronicles of Spain 
Down the dark pages runs this stain. 
And naught can wash them white again, 
So fearful is the tragedy." 



THE THEOLOGIAN'S TALE. 

TORQUEMADA. 

In the heroic days when Ferdinand 

And Isabella ruled the Spanish land, 

And Torquemada, with his subtle brain, 

Ruled them, as Grand Inquisitor of Spain, 

In a great castle near Valladolid, 

Moated and high and by fair woodlands hid, 

There dwelt, as from the chronicles we learn, 

An old Hidalgo proud and taciturn. 

Whose name has perished, with his towers of 

stone, 

And all his actions save this one alone; 

This one, so terrible, perhaps 'twere best 

If it, too, were forgotten with the rest; 

Unless, perchance, our eyes can see therein 
166 



TORQUEMADA. 167 

The martyrdom triumphant o'er the sin; 
A double picture, with its gloom and glow, 
The splendor overhead, the death below. 

This sombre man counted each day as lost 
On which his feet no sacred threshold crossed; 
And when he chanced the passing Host to meet, 
He knelt and prayed devoutly in the street; 
Oft he confessed; and with each mutinous 

thought. 
As with wild beasts at Ephesus, he fought. 
In deep contrition scourged himself in Lent, 
Walked in processions, with his head down bent. 
At plays of Corpus Christi oft was seen. 
And on Palm Sunday bore his bough of green. 
His only pastime was to hunt the boar 
Through tangled thickets of the forest hoar, 
Or with his jingling mules to hurry down 
To some grand bull-fight in the neighboring 

town. 



168 TALES OF A IVAYSIDE INN. 

Or in the crowd with lighted taper stand, 
When Jews were burned, or banished from the 

land. 
Then stirred within him a tumultuous joy; 
The demon whose delight is to destroy 
Shook him, and shouted with a trumpet tone, 
"Kill ! kill ! and let the Lord find out his own ! " 

And now, in that old castle in the wood, 
His daughters, in the dawn of womanhood. 
Returning from their convent school, had made 
Resplendent with their bloom the forest shade, 
Reminding him of their dead mother's face. 
When first she came into that gloomy place, — 
A memory in his heart as dim and sweet 
As moonhght in a solitary street, 
Where the same rays, that lift the sea, are thrown 
Lovely but powerless upon walls of stone. 
These two fair daughters of a mother dead 
Were all the dream had left him as it fled. 



TORQUEMADA. 169 

A joy at first, and then a growing care, 
As if a voice within him cried, ''Beware!" 
A vague presentiment of impending doom, 
Like ghostly footsteps in a vacant room, 
Haunted him day and night; a formless fear 
That death to some one of his house was 

near, 
With dark surmises of a hidden crime, 
Made life itself a death before its time. 
Jealous, suspicious, with no sense of shame, 
A spy upon his daughters he became; 
With velvet slippers, noiseless on the floors. 
He glided softly through half-open doors; 
Now in the room, and now upon the stair. 
He stood beside them ere they were aware; 
He listened in the passage when they talked. 
He watched them from the casement when they 

walked, 
He saw the gypsy haunt the river's side. 
He saw the monk among the cork-trees glide; 



170 TALES' OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

And, tortured by the mystery and the doubt 
Of some dark secret, past his finding out, 
Baffled he paused; then reassured again 
Pursued the flying phantom of his brain. 
He watched them even when they knelt in church; 
And then, descending lower in his search. 
Questioned the servants, and with eager eyes 
Listened incredulous to their replies; 
The gypsy ? none had seen her in the wood ! 
The monk ? a mendicant in search of food ! 

At length the awful revelation came, 
Crushing at once his pride of birth and name, 
The hopes his yearning bosom forward cast. 
And the ancestral glories of the past; 
All fell together, crumbling in disgrace, 
A turret rent from battlement to base. 
His daughters talking in the dead of night 
In their own chamber, and without a light, 
Listening, as he was wont, he overheard, 



TORQUEMADA. 171 

And learned the dreadful secret, word by word; 
And hurrying from his castle, with a cry 
He raised his hands to the unpitying sky, 
Repeating one dread word, till bush and tree 
Caught it, and shuddering answered, "Heresy!" 

Wrapped in his cloak, his hat drawn o'er his 

face, 
Now hurrying forward, now with lingering pace, 
He walked all night the alleys of his park, 
With one unseen companion in the dark, 
The Demon who within him lay in wait, 
And by his presence turned his love to hate. 
Forever muttering in an undertone, 
''Killl kill! and let the Lord find out his own!" 

Upon the morrow, after early Mass, 
While yet the dew was glistening on the grass, 
And all the woods were musical with birds, 
The old Hidalgo, uttering fearful words, 



172 TALES OF A ^V AYS IDE INN. 

Walked homeward with the Priest, and in his 

room 
Summoned his trembhng daughters to their 

doom. 
When questioned, with brief answers they re- 

phed, 
Nor when accused evaded or denied; 
Expostulations, passionate appeals, 
All that the human heart most fears or feels. 
In vain the Priest with earnest voice essayed. 
In vain the father threatened, wept, and prayed; 
Until at last he said, with haughty mien, 
''The Holy Office, then, must intervene!" 

And now the Grand Inquisitor of Spain, 
With all the fifty horsemen of his train. 
His awful name resounding, like the blast 
Of funeral trumpets, as he onward passed, 
Came to Valladolid, and there began 
To harry the rich Jews with fire and ban. 



TORQUEMADA. 173 

To him the Hidalgo went, and at the gate 

Demanded audience on affairs of state, 

And in a secret chamber stood before 

A venerable graybeard of fourscore, 

Dressed in the hood and habit of a friar; 

Out of his eyes flashed a consuming fire, 

And in his hand the mystic horn he held. 

Which poison and all noxious charms dispelled. 

He heard in silence the Hidalgo's tale, 

Then answered in a voice that made him quail: 

"Son of the Church! when Abraham of old 

To. sacrifice his only son was told, 

He did not pause to parley nor protest, 

But hastened to obey the Lord's behest. 

In him it was accounted righteousness; 

The Holy Church expects of thee no less ! " 

A sacred frenzy seized the father's brain. 
And Mercy from that hour implored in vain. 
Ah ! who will e'er believe the words I say ? 



174 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

His daughters he accused, and the same day 
They both were cast into the dungeon's gloom, 
That dismal antechamber of the tomb, 
Arraigned, condemned, and sentenced to the 

flame, 
The secret torture and the pubHc shame. 

Then to the Grand Inquisitor once more 
The Hidalgo went, more eager than before. 
And said: ''When Abraham offered up his son, 
He clave the wood wherewith it might be done. 
By his example taught, let me too bring 
Wood from the forest for my offering!" 
And the deep voice, without a pause, replied: 
"Son of the Church! by faith now justified. 
Complete thy sacrifice, even as thou wilt; 
The Church absolves thy conscience from all 

guih!" 
Then this most wretched father went his way 
Into the woods, that round his castle lay, 



TORQUEMADA. 175 

Where once his daughters in their childhood 

played 
With their young mother in the sun and shade. 
Now all the leaves had fallen; the branches 

bare 
Made a perpetual moaning in the air, 
And screaming from their eyries overhead 
The ravens sailed athwart the sky of lead. 
With his own hands he lopped the boughs and 

bound 
Fagots, that crackled with foreboding sound, 
And on his mules, caparisoned and gay 
With bells and tassels, sent them on their way. 

Then with his mind on one dark purpose bent, 
Again to the Inquisitor he went, 
And said: "Behold, the fagots I have brought, 
And now, lest my atonement be as naught, 
Grant me one more request, one last desire, — 
With my own hand to light the funeral fire!" 



176 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

And Torquemada answered from his seat, 
''Son of the Church ! Thine offering is complete; 
Her servants through all ages shall not cease 
To magnify thy deed. Depart in peace 1" 

Upon the market-place, builded of stone 

The scaffold rose, whereon Death claimed his 

own. 
At the four corners, in stern attitude. 
Four statues of the Hebrew Prophets stood. 
Gazing with calm indifference in their eyes 
Upon this place of human sacrifice. 
Round which was gathering fast the eager crowd, 
With clamor of voices dissonant and loud, 
And every roof and window was alive 
With restless gazers, swarming like a hive. 

The church-bells tolled, the chant of monks drew 

near. 
Loud trumpets stammered forth their notes of 

fear, 



TORQUEMADA. Ill 

A line of torches smoked along the street, 
There was a stir, a rush, a tramp of feet, 
And, with its banners floating in the air, 
Slowly the long procession crossed the square, 
And, to the statues of the Prophets bound. 
The victims stood, with fagots piled around. 
Then all the air a blast of trumpets shook, 
And louder sang the monks with bell and book, 
And the Hidalgo, lofty, stern, and proud. 
Lifted his torch, and, bursting through the crowd. 
Lighted in haste the fagots, and then fled, 
Lest those imploring eyes should strike him dead ! 

O pitiless skies ! why did your clouds retain 
For peasants' fields their floods of hoarded rain ? 
O pitiless earth ! why opened no abyss 
To bury in its chasm a crime like this? 

That night, a mingled column of fire and smoke 
From the dark thickets of the forest broke, 



178 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

And, glaring o'er the landscape leagues away, 
Made all the fields and hamlets bright as day. 
Wrapped in a sheet of flame the castle blazed, 
And as the villagers in terror gazed, 
They saw the figure of that cruel knight 
Lean from a window in the turret's height, 
His ghastly face illumined with the glare, 
His hands upraised above his head in prayer, 
Till the floor sank beneath him, and he fell 
Down the black hollow of that burning well. 

Three centuries and more above his bones 
Have piled the oblivious years hke funeral stones; 
His name has perished with him, and no trace 
Remains on earth of his afflicted race; 
But Torquemada's name, with clouds o'ercast. 
Looms in the distant landscape of the Past, 
Like a burnt tower upon a blackened heath, 
Lit by the fires of burning woods beneath! 



INTERLUDE. 

Thus closed the tale of guilt and gloom, 

That cast upon each listener's face 

Its shadow, and for some brief space 

Unbroken silence filled the room. 

The Jew was thoughtful and distressed; 

Upon his memory thronged and pressed 

The persecution of his race, 

Their wrongs and sufferings and disgrace: 

His head was sunk upon his breast. 

And from his eyes alternate came 

Flashes of wrath and tears of shame. 

The student first the silence broke, 

As one who long has lain in wait, 

With purpose to retaliate. 

And thus he dealt the avenging stroke. 
179 



180 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

''In such a company as this, 

A tale so tragic seems amiss, 

That by its terrible control 

O'ermasters and drags down the soul 

Into a fathomless abyss. 

The Itahan Tales that you disdain, 

Some merry Night of Straparole, 

Or MachiaveUi's Belphagor, 

Would cheer us and delight us more, 

Give greater pleasure and less pain 

Than your grim tragedies of Spain ! " 

And here the Poet raised his hand, 
With such entreaty and command. 
It stopped discussion at its birth, 
And said: "The story I shall tell 
Has meaning in it, if not mirth; 
Listen, and hear what once befell 
The merry birds of KiUingworth ! " 



THE POET'S TALE. 

THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH. 

It was the season, when through all the land 
The merle and mavis build, and building 
sing 

Those lovely lyrics, written by His hand, 
Whom Saxon Caedmon calls the Blithe-heart 
King; 

When on the boughs the purple buds expand. 
The banners of the vanguard of the Spring, 

And rivulets, rejoicing, rush and leap. 

And wave their fluttering signals from the steep. 

The robin and the blue-bird, piping loud. 

Filled all the blossoming orchards with their 

glee; 

181 



182 TALES OF A IVAYSIDE INN. 

The sparrows chirped as if they were still proud 
Their race in Holy Writ should mentioned be; 

And hungry crows assembled in a crowd, 
Clamored their piteous prayer incessantly, 

Knowing who hears the ravens cry, and said: 

"Give us, O Lord, this day our daily bread!" 

Across the Sound the birds of passage sailed. 
Speaking some unknown language strange and 
sweet 

Of tropic isle remote, and passing hailed 

The village with the cheers of all their fleet; 

Or quarrelHng together, laughed and railed 
Like foreign sailors, landed in the street 

Of seaport town, and with outlandish noise 

Of oaths and gibberish frightening girls and 
boys. 

Thus came the jocund Spring in Killingworth, 
In fabulous days, some hundred years ago; 
And thrifty farmers, as they tilled the earth, 



THE BIRDS OF KILLING 14^'ORTH. 183 

Heard with alarm the cawing of the crow, 
That mingled with the universal mirth, 

Cassandra-like, prognosticating woe; 
They shook their heads, and doomed with dread- 
ful words 
To swift destruction the w^hole race of birds. 

And a town-meeting was convened straightway 
To set a price upon the guilty heads 

Of these marauders, who, in lieu of pay, 
Levied black-mail upon the garden beds 

And cornfields, and beheld without dismay 
The awful scarecrow, with his fluttering shreds ; 

The skeleton that waited at their feast, 

Whereby their sinful pleasure was increased. 

Then from his house, a temple painted white, 
With fluted columns, and a roof of red. 

The Squire came forth, august and splendid 
sight ! 
Slowly descending, with majestic tread. 



184 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

Three flights of steps, nor looking left nor right, 
Down the long street he walked, as one who 
said, 
''A town that boasts inhabitants Hke me 
Can have no lack of good society 1 " 

The Parson, too, appeared, a man austere, 
The instinct of whose nature was to kill; 

The wrath of God he preached from year to 
year, 
And read, with fervor, Edwards on the Will; 

His favorite pastime was to slay the deer 
In Summer on some Adirondac hill; 

E'en now, while walking down the rural lane. 

He lopped the wayside lilies with his cane. 

From the Academy, whose belfry crowned 
The hill of Science with its vane of brass. 

Came the Preceptor, gazing idly round. 

Now at the clouds, and now at the* green grass, 

And all absorbed in reveries profound 



THE BIRDS OF KILLINGIVORTH. 185 

Of fair Almira in the upper class, 
Who was, as in a sonnet he had said. 
As pure as water, and as good as bread. 

And next the Deacon issued from his door. 
In his voKiminous neck-cloth, white as snow; 

A suit of sable bombazine he wore; 

His form was ponderous, and his step was 
slow; 

There never was so wise a man before; 

He seemed the incarnate "Well, I told you 
so!" 

And to perpetuate his great renown 

There was a street named after him in town. 

These came together in the new town-hall, 
With sundry farmers from the region round. 

The Squire presided, dignified and tall, 

His air impressive and his reasoning sound; 

111 fared it with the birds, both great and small; 
Hardly a friend in all that crowd they found, 



186 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

But enemies enough, who every one 
Charged them with all the crimes beneath the 
sun. 

When they had ended, from his place apart, 
Rose the Preceptor, to redress the wrong, 

And, trembling like a steed before the start. 
Looked round bewildered on the expectant 
throng; 

Then thought of fair Almira, and took heart 
To speak out what was in him, clear and 
strong. 

Alike regardless of their smile or frown. 

And quite determined not to be laughed down. 

"Plato, anticipating the Reviewers, 

From his Republic banished without pity 

The Poets; in this little town of yours. 

You put to death, by means of a Committee, 

The ballad-singers and the Troubadours, 



THE BIRDS OF KILLINGIVORTH. 187 

The street-musicians of the heavenly city, 
The birds, who make sweet music for us all 
In our dark hours, as David did for Saul. 

''The thrush that carols at the dawn of day 
From the green steeples of the piny w^ood; 

The oriole in the elm; the noisy jay, 
Jargoning like a foreigner at his food; 

The blue-bird balanced on some topmost spray, 
Flooding with melody the neighborhood; 

Linnet and meadow-lark, and all the throng 

That dwell in nests, and have the gift of song. 

''You slay them all! and wherefore? for the 
gain 

Of a scant handful more or less of wheat, 
Or rye, or barley, or some other grain. 

Scratched up at random by industrious feet, 
Searching for worm or weevil after rain ! 

Or a few cherries, that are not so sweet 



188 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

As are the songs these uninvited guests 
Sing at their feast with comfortable breasts. 

*'Do you ne'er think what wondrous beings 
these ? 

Do you ne'er think who made them, and who 
taught 
The dialect they speak, where melodies 

Alone are the interpreters of thought? 
Whose household words are songs in many keys, 

Sweeter than instrument of man e'er caught ! 
Whose habitations in the tree-tops even 
Are halfway houses on the road to heaven ! 

"Think, every morning when the sun peeps 
through 

The dim, leaf-latticed windows of the grove, 
How jubilant the happy birds renew 

Their old, melodious madrigals of love ! 
And when you think of this, remember too 



THE BIRDS OF KILLINGIVORTH. 189 

'Tis always morning somewhere, and above 
The awakening continents, from shore to shore. 
Somewhere the birds are singing evermore. 

"Think of your woods and orchards without 
birds ! 

Of empty nests that cHng to boughs and beams 
As in an idiot's brain remembered words 

Hang empty 'mid the cobwebs of his dreams ! 
Will bleat of flocks or bellowing of herds 

Make up for the lost music, when your teams 
Drag home the stingy harvest, and no more 
The feathered gleaners follow to your door? 

*'What! would you rather see the incessant stir 
Of insects in the windrows of the hay, 

And hear the locust and the grasshopper 
Their melancholy hurdy-gurdies play? 

Is this more pleasant to you than the whir 
Of meadow-lark, and its sweet roundelay, 



190 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

Or twitter of little field-fares, as you take 
Your nooning in the shade of bush and brake? 

''You call them thieves and pillagers; but know 
They are the winged w^ardens of your farms, 

Who from the cornfields drive the insidious 
foe, 
And from your harvests keep a hundred 
harms ; 

Even the blackest of them all, the crow. 

Renders good service as your man-at-arms, 

Crushing the beetle in his coat of mail, 

And crying havoc on the slug and snail. 

"How can I teach your children gentleness, 
And mercy to the weak, and reverence 

For Life, which, in its weakness or excess, 
Is still a gleam of God's omnipotence 

Or Death, w^hich, seeming darkness, is no less 
The selfsame light, although averted hence. 



THE BIRDS OF KILUNGIVORTH. 191 

When by your laws, your actions, and your 

speech, 
You contradict the very things I teach?" 

With this he closed; and through the audience 
went 
A murmur, like the rustle of dead leaves; 
The farmers laughed and nodded, and some 
bent 
Their yellow heads together like their sheaves ; 
Men have no faith in fine-spun sentiment 

Who put their trust in bullocks and in beeves. 
The birds were doomed; and, as the record 

shows, 
A bounty offered for the heads of crows. 

There was another audience out of reach, 
Who had no voice nor vote in making laws, 

But in the papers read his little speech. 

And crowned his modest temples with applause; 



192 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

They made him conscious, each one more than 
each, 
He still was victor, vanquished in their cause. 
Sweetest of all the applause he won from thee, 
O fair Almira at the Academy! 

And so the dreadful massacre began; 

O'er fields and orchards, and o'er woodland 
crests, 
The ceaseless fusillade of terror' ran. 

Dead fell the birds, with blood-stains on their 
breasts. 
Or wounded crept away from sight of man. 

While the young died of famine in their nests; 
A slaughter to be told in groans, not words, 
The very St. Bartholomew of Birds ! 

The Summer came, and all the birds were dead; 

The days were like hot coals; the very ground 
Was burned to ashes; in the orchards fed 

Myriads of caterpillars, and around 



THE BIRDS OF KILLINGIVORTH. 193 

The cultivated fields and garden beds 

Hosts of devouring insects crawled, and found 
No foe to check their march, till they had made 
The land a desert without leaf or shade. 

Devoured by worms, like Herod, was the town, 
Because, hke Herod, it had ruthlessly 

Slaughtered the Innocents. From the trees spun 
down 
The canker-worms upon the passers-by, 

Upon each woman's bonnet, shawl, and gown, 
Who shook them off with just a httle cry; 

They were the terror of each favorite walk, 

The endless theme of all the village talk. 

The farmers grew impatient, but a few 

Confessed their error, and would not com- 
plain, 

For after all, the best thing one can do 
When it is raining, is to let it rain. 



194 TALES OF A IVAYSIDE INN, 

Then they repealed the law, although they knew 

It would not call the dead to life again; 
As school-boys, finding their mistake too late, 
Draw a wet sponge across the accusing slate. 

That year in KiUingworth the Autumn came 
Without the light of his majestic look, 

The wonder of the falling tongues of flame, 
The illumined pages of his Doom's-Day book. 

A few lost leaves blushed crimson with their 
shame. 
And drowned themselves despairing in the 
brook. 

While the wild wind went moaning everywhere. 

Lamenting the dead children of the air! 

But the next Spring a stranger sight was seen, 
A sight that never yet by bard was sung. 

As great a wonder as it would have been 
If some dumb animal had found a tongue ! 



THE BIRDS OF KILLINGIVORTH. 195 

A wagon, overarched with evergreen, 

Upon whose boughs were wicker cages hung. 
All full of singing birds, came down the street, 
FiUing the air with music wild and sweet. 



From all the country round these birds were 
brought, 

By order of the town, with anxious quest, 
And, loosened from their wicker prisons, sought 

In woods and fields the places they loved best, 
Singing loud canticles, which many thought 

Were satires to the authorities addressed. 
While others, listening in green lanes, averred 
Such lovely music never had been heard ! 

But blither still and louder carolled they 

Upon the morrow, for they seemed to know 

It was the fair Almira's wedding-day. 
And everywhere, around, above, below, 



196 TALES OF A IVAYSIDE INN. 

When the Preceptor bore his bride away, 

Their songs burst forth in joyous overflow, 
And a new heaven bent over a new earth 
Amid the sunny farms of Kilhngworth. 



FINALE. 

The hour was late; the fire burned low, 
The landlord's eyes were closed in sleep, 
And near the story's end a deep 
Sonorous sound at times was heard. 
As when the distant bagpipes blow. 
At this all laughed; the Landlord stirred, 
As one awaking from a swound. 
And, gazing anxiously around, 
Protested that he had not slept. 
But only shut his eyes, and kept 
His ears attentive to each word. 

Then all arose, and said "Good Night." 

Alone remained the drowsy Squire 

To rake the embers of the fire, 

And quench the waning parlor light; 
197 



198 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

While from the windows, here and there, 
The scattered lamps a moment gleamed. 
And the illumined hostel seemed 
The constellation of the Bear, 
Downward, athwart the misty air, 
Sinking and setting toward the sun. 
Far off the village clock struck one. 



BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 



FLIGHT THE SECOND. 



THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. 

Between the dark and the daylight, 
When the night is beginning to lower, 

Comes a pause in the day's occupations, 
That is known as the Children's Hour. 

I hear in the chamber above me 

The patter of httle feet, 
The sound of a door that is opened, 

And voices soft and sweet. 

From my study I see in the lamplight. 
Descending the broad hall stair, 

Grave Alice, and laughing AUegra, 
And Edith with golden hair. 
201 



202 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 

A whisper, and then a silence: 
Yet I know by their merry eyes 

They are plotting and planning together 
To take me by surprise. 

A sudden rush from the stairway, 
A sudden raid from the hall ! 

By three doors left unguarded 
They enter my castle wall! 

They climb up into my turret 

O'er the arms and back of my chair; 

If I try to escape, they surround me; 
They seem to be everywhere. 

They almost devour me with kisses, 
Their arms about me entwine. 

Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen 
In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine ! 



THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. 203 

Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, 
Because you have scaled the wall, 

Such an old moustache as I am 
Is not a match for you all! 

I have you fast in my fortress, 

And will not let you depart, 
But put you down into the dungeon 

In the round-tower of my heart. 

And there will I keep you forever. 

Yes, forever and a day, 
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, 

And moulder in dust away! 



ENCELADUS. 

Under Mount Etna he lies, 

It is slumber, it is not death; 
For he struggles at times to arise, 
And above him the lurid skies 
Are hot with his fiery breath. 

The crags are piled on his breast, 

The earth is heaped on his head; 
But the groans of his wild unrest, 
Though smothered and half suppressed, 
Are heard, and he is not dead. 

And the nations far away 

Are watching with eager eyes; 
204 



ENCELADUS. 205 

They talk together and say, 
"To-morrow, perhaps to-day, 
Enceladus will arise!" 

And the old gods, the austere 

Oppressors in their strength. 
Stand aghast and white with fear 
At the ominous sounds they hear, 

And tremble, and mutter, "At length!" 

Ah me ! for the land that is sown 

With the harvest of despair ! 
Where the burning cinders, blown 
From the lips of the overthrown 

Enceladus, fill the air. 

Where ashes are heaped in drifts 

Over vineyard and field and town. 
Whenever he starts and lifts 
His head through the blackened rifts 
Of the crags that keep him down. 



206 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 

See, see ! the red light shines ! 

'Tis the glare of his awful eyes ! 
And the storm-wind shouts through the pines 
Of Alps and of Apennines, 

"Enceladus, arise 1" 



THE CUMBERLAND. 

At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay, 

On board of the Cumberland, sloop-of-war; 
And at times from the fortress across the bay 
The alarum of drums swept past, 
Or a bugle blast 
From the camp on the shore. 

Then far away to the south uprose 

A little feather of snow-white smoke, 
And we knew that the iron ship of our foes 
Was steadily steering its course 
To try the force 
Of our ribs of oak. 

207 



208 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 

Down upon -us heavily runs, 

Silent and sullen, the floating fort; 
Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns, 
And leaps the terrible death, 
With fiery breath, 
From each open port. 

We are not idle, but send her straight 

Defiance back in a full broadside ! 
As hail rebounds from a roof of slate, 
Rebounds our heavier hail 
From each iron scale 
Of the monster's hide. 

''Strike your flag!" the rebel cries, 

In his arrogant old plantation strain. 
"Never!" our gallant Morris replies; 
''It is better to sink than to yield!" 
And the whole air pealed 
With the cheers of our men. 



THE CUMBERLAND. 209 

Then, like a kraken huge and black, 

She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp! 
Down went the Cumberland all a wrack, 
With a sudden shudder of death, 
And the cannon's breath 
For her dying gasp. 

Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay, 

Still floated our flag at the mainmast-head. 
Lord, how beautiful was thy day I 
Every w^aft of the air 
Was a whisper of prayer. 
Or a dirge for the dead. 

Ho! brave hearts that went down in the seas! 

Ye are at peace in the troubled stream, 
Ho ! brave land ! with hearts like these. 
Thy flag, that is rent in twain, 
Shall be one again. 
And without a seam ! 



SNOW-FLAKES. 

Out of the bosom of the Air, 

Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken, 
Over the woodlands brown and bare 
Over the harvest-fields forsaken, 
Silent, and soft, and slow 
Descends the snow. 

Even as our cloudy fancies take 

Suddenly shape in some divine expression. 
Even as the troubled heart doth make 
In the white countenance confession, 
The troubled sky reveals 
The grief it feels. 

210 



SNOIV-FLAKES. 211 

This is the poem of the air, 

Slowly in silent syllables recorded; 
This is the secret of despair, 

Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded, 
Now whispered and revealed 
To wood and field. 



A DAY OF SUNSHINE. 

GIFT of God ! O perfect day : 
Whereon shall no man work, but play; 
Whereon it is enough for me, 

Not to be doing, but to be ! 

Through every fibre of my brain, 
Through every nerve, through every vein, 

1 feel the electric thrill, the touch 
Of Hfe, that seems almost too much. 

I hear the wind among the trees 

Playing celestial symphonies; 

I see the branches downward bent. 

Like keys of some great instrument. 
212 



A DAY OF SUNSHINE. 213 

And over me unrolls on high 
The splendid scenery of the sky, 
Where through a sapphire sea the sun 
Sails like a golden galleon, 

Towards yonder cloud-land in the West, 
Towards yonder Islands of the Blest, 
Whose steep sierra far uplifts 
Its craggy summits white with drifts. 



Blow, winds ! and waft through all the rooms 
The snow-flakes of the cherry-blooms ! 
Blow, winds ! and bend within my reach 
The fiery blossoms of the peach ! 



O Life and Love! O happy throng 
Of thoughts, whose only speech is song! 
O heart of man ! canst thou not be 
Blithe as the air is, and as free? 



SOMETHING LEFT UNDONE. 

Labor with what zeal we will, 
Something still remains undone, 

Something uncompleted still 
Waits the rising of the sun. 

By the bedside, on the stair, 
At the threshold, near the gates, 

With its menace or its prayer, 
Like a mendicant it waits; 

Waits, and will not go away; 

Waits, and will not be gainsaid; 
By the cares of yesterday 

Each to-day is heavier made; 
214 



SOMETHING LEFT UNDONE. 216 

Till at length the burden seems 

Greater than our strength can bear, 

Heavy as the weight of dreams, 
Pressing on us everywhere. 

And we stand from day to day. 
Like the dwarfs of times gone by, 

Who, as Northern legends say, 
On their shoulders held the sky. 



WEARINESS. 

O LITTLE feet ! that such long years 
Must wander on through hopes and fears, 

Must ache and bleed beneath your load; 
I, nearer to the wayside inn 
Where toil shall cease and rest begin, 

Am weary, thinking of your road ! 

O little hands ! that, weak or strong, 
Have still to serve or rule so long. 

Have still so long to give or ask; 
I, who so much with book and pen 
Have toiled among my fellow-men, 

Am weary, thinking of your task. 
216 



IVEARINESS. 217 

O little hearts ! that throb and beat 
With such impatient, feverish heat, 

Such limitless and strong desires; 
Mine that so long has glowed and burned, 
With passions into ashes turned 

Now covers and conceals its fires. 

O little souls ! as pure and white 
And crystalline as rays of light 

Direct from heaven, their source divine; 
Refracted through the mist of years. 
How red my setting sun appears. 

How lurid looks this soul of mine! 



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